


Je N'Aime Que Toi

by pricingham



Series: d'amour ou d'amitié [3]
Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bisexual Gaston (Disney), Canon Era, Canon Gay Character, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Jealousy, M/M, Oblivious Gaston (Disney), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-01-16 20:20:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12349977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pricingham/pseuds/pricingham
Summary: Gaston and LeFou's relationship after the War, pre-movie and during movie events.Each chapter equals one year.Rated M for sexual content (bc ao3 doesn't let me elaborate on why w tags! and because gaston is huh a whoremonger to cope)





	1. 20

Gaston rubbed his eye, bloodshot from being kept awake by nightmares. LeFou was currently giving a slightly slurred speech about how incredible and brave Gaston was as he stood on a small wooden stage the villagers had built for that day, a stein of beer in his hands.

Gaston smiled at his friend as he went on and on about how “Gaston saved this village” and how “everyone should thank him for still being alive”. He laughed it off with false modesty; in reality, he was relishing in the attention and praise he was getting. Taking a gulp from his drink, he looked over at the triplets, that sat at a table about eight feet away from his. Eloise rested her chin on her hand as she smiled at him with heavy lidded eyes that gazed his body up and down. Elise was listening very intently to LeFou, hands on the table, and Elaine was playing with her hair absent mindedly as one of the tavern maids filled her stein. Gaston smirked at Eloise then turned back to LeFou who was bowing at people’s clapping. Gaston whooped and slapped his hand against the metal stein, his ring making it shudder.

LeFou smiled at him and sat by him. “Did you like it?” he asked before stealing Gaston’s beer.

Gaston grinned at him. “Of course! I like anything you do for me, LeFou.”

LeFou stopped drinking. He stared at Gaston, cheeks flushed red, and handed him his stein. Gaston’s breath hitched as his gaze lowered from LeFou’s eyes to his lips dripping with beer that escaped them. He mimicked his friend as he wet his lips to recover the drink. Gaston was broken out of that trance-like state when he felt a slender, light hand on his shoulder. He looked up at the person, finding Eloise looking at him.

“And how can I help you?” he said, eyeing her up and down.

“Well, for now you can’t, because it’s your turn to speak, _Captain_.”

Gaston hummed and turned to LeFou who was glaring at Eloise with squinted eyes. He put his hand to LeFou’s cheek and his eyes widened nearly immediately. “Y-yeah?” he choked, turning to Gaston.

“I’m going to go up there. Watch my beer, yes?”

LeFou nodded, pulling the stein close to him. He smiled at Gaston and Gaston grinned at him in reply, then got up, discreetly slapped Eloise on the ass, eliciting a soft giggle, and finally walked on the small stage. Everyone — well, mostly, anyway — clapped and cheered him as he took his black captain hat from Père Robert, who gave him a small smile as he handed it. Gaston grinned and put it on, then stroke a pose. Right foot on a stool, one hand resting on his thigh and the other on his hip, chin up. One of the maids gave him his gun and, without a glance to the painting of himself near him, stroke the same pose in the picture: the exact same as before but this time his right hand wielded the rifle with which he had killed so many enemies.

LeFou cheered louder than everyone else, as usual, only managing to put a grin on Gaston’s face. He lowered the gun, took off his hat, and took in a deep breath. “People of Villeneuve! My friends, my neighbors. Today we celebrate the first year anniversary of our victory in the War!” More cheers. “It was thanks to all my men and, of course, me as their captain and LeFou as my aide-de-camp, that we won. And for that I want to thank all of you that fought beside me, even if you’re no longer with us, because unfortunately we did lose a lot of men.” He bit at the side of his cheek, trying to avoid smiling as he thought about the sad, broken women they had left behind spread on a bed of satin. He cleared his throat. “Now, we’ve grieved their deaths for a year. I don’t intend to speak ill of the dead, _but_ we do deserve some resting. And drinking! So, get to it, it’s your captain’s order!” He grinned as he said it and while most of the people present laughed and cheered, some side-eyed him. Gaston understood it. He was their captain, he was supposed to care about every single little life lost. But he couldn’t. They were meaningless deaths. He shook his head, gave everyone a last smile, and walked to his table. He slumped on his chair, which LeFou had guarding as well as his beer. “Thank you, LeFou.”

“Anything for, for you, Gaston,” he said, nodding.

Gaston drank as he watched LeFou’s head fall and then rise up again, LeFou looking drowsy. “Are you feeling alright?”

LeFou nodded. “I think I might have… drunk too much.” He gave Gaston a sleepy smile that faded when Eloise came back to sit on Gaston’s lap.

“LeFou,” she greeted, smiling at him.

“Eloise,” he said, looking at the stage. The band from the tavern now sat down in benches hurriedly put there and started playing a gleeful tune.

After a while of Gaston and Eloise teasing each other with kisses and lewd, soft touches, LeFou got to his feet, stumbling slightly. Gaston withdrew his lips from Eloise's sensitive neck when he felt LeFou leave. “Where are you going?” he asked, lips partly stained with Eloise's pink lipstick, smeared by the corners.

LeFou groaned. “Home. I feel sick.”

“Ah.” Gaston nodded. “I'll be there soon.”

“Alright. Enjoy yourself,” he told him over his shoulder.

“And I shall,” Gaston murmured with a grin, turning to Eloise, her corset half open. He hummed. “Should we head to your place?” he asked, his sly, flirtatious grin never leaving his lips as his hands pushed the sides of her dress up to her hips.

Eloise giggled, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her lips to his in a firm, almost hungry kiss. Gaston parted and chuckled, bringing her closer by the hips. She gasped and they kissed again, Gaston’s hand to LeFou’s hair— no, _Eloise_ ’s hair. Why on earth was he thinking about LeFou?

He parted, frowning, and looked at Eloise, as if to study her. The way her intricate hairdo began to fall apart and let her hair fall in curly waves onto her shoulders. How the blush that covered her skin from her neck to her cheeks to her cheekbones was as pink as her dress. How he had smeared her lipstick with his almost ferocious kisses. (Just to remind himself that this wasn't, in fact, his lifelong friend.) “Shall we?” he asked, voice rough.

Eloise, short of breath, nodded, kissing him again.

 

Eloise, short of breath, moaned as Gaston pulled her close to him, hand tangling in her hair. He gasped then growled, Eloise gasping for breath as she rode out her orgasm. She sighed, forehead pressed to Gaston’s collarbone, and Gaston dug his nails into her back, letting out a ragged breath as he came. He kissed her shoulder in some sort of apology for the marks she’d have on her back. Eloise didn’t say anything about it, simply got up and lied next to him, still recovering her breath. Gaston took a deep breath and let his eyes slip close and himself slump and lie on the bed. He rubbed his eyes and then got up to his feet to get himself rolling paper and tobacco. Ever since he had come back from Paris, he had been almost addicted to it. He had tried it when he went there to receive his reward and his medal — the Prince was staying there for vacation —, and he couldn’t stop rolling it and smoking it every now and then.

He lit the rolled cigarette with the lit candle by his bed and took a drag.

“I must admit,” Eloise finally spoke, after hitting Gaston on the back softly for him to give her his cigarette, “I’m surprised you didn’t call me ‘LeFou’ once.”

Gaston frowned and turned to her, sneering. “Why?”

She laughed, taking another drag and handing it to Gaston. “Are you serious?” She sat up and licked her lips, looking Gaston dead in the eyes. “I can’t count on my fingers how many times you’ve whispered his name during sex. I can’t move one certain way without you going, ‘Oh, LeFou, you feel so good, LeFou’,” she mocked, moaning in an exaggerated way. She let out a dry chuckle when all she got was a glare from Gaston. “It’s ridiculous. ...Are you sure you’re not a sodomite like him?”

“Will you shut up about LeFou, Eloise?!” he snapped. “Why are you so jealous? He’s been my best friend since childhood, there’s all there is to us. ...And don’t call him that,” he said, before putting the cigarette in his mouth and starting to dress up, careful not to burn his clothes.

Eloise scoffed. “I bet he touches himself to you.”

“Eloise, I’m serious. Alright?” he said, muffled by the cigarette.

“I can hear him, right now,” she kept going, ignoring Gaston as he finished buttoning up his waistcoat. “‘Oh, Gaston! Yeah, Gaston! Fuck me!’,” she said in a falsetto with the occasional whine.

With a roll of eyes, he took a last drag from his cigarette and threw it at her. “Smoke and see if you shut up.”

“I know what your cock likes, Gaston, and it’s me!” she shouted from her room as Gaston walked down the stairs.

“My cock likes when you’re quiet!” he replied, closing the door with a bang in his way out. He walked around until he found the mirror shop, where he watched his reflection as the post-orgasmic blush in his neck began to fade. Gaston brushed his hair with his fingers, trying his best to leave it as perfectly as it was before. Despite smelling like sweat and sex, and having in mind bragging about it to anyone who’d listen, he didn’t like looking like someone who slept around. Sure, it was accepted but he didn’t enjoy it. It reminded him of his mother. He shook his head, then head to the tavern, where everyone else seemed to be.

Everyone cheered drunkenly when Gaston entered the basement, and he replied to it with a wave of his hand and a smile. Said smile softened when he noticed LeFou asleep in Gaston’s favorite chair. No one was allowed to touch it, no one was allowed to sit on it. It was the only good memory Gaston had of his father, besides, perhaps, Henri.

He woke LeFou gently, who blinked at him when awake and then grinned. “Hi.”

“Did you sleep well?” he joked, before ordering two beers.

LeFou stretched, yawning, and got up to sit in his usual seat, on a small bench right next to Gaston’s chair. “Yeah, actually. How was Eloise?”

Gaston shrugged. “Same as ever. Thank you,” he murmured to the maid who handed him two steins. “Do you want one?”

“I’m good, thank you. ...You stink of sex.”

Gaston finished his beer before speaking. “I know. Try to ignore it, I didn’t have time to bath.”

“And why’s that?” LeFou asked with a mocking smirk. “Did Eloise’s cunt stop you?”

“Ha, ha, you’re so funny. No, LeFou. She was just… being weird after.” He took a big swallow from the other drink.

“What was she doing?” he asked, stealing a bit of Gaston’s beer.

“I thought you were good,” Gaston laughed. Then wet his lips and shrugged. “She was… talking shit about you. Bad shit.”

“What kind of bad shit?” LeFou asked with a confused frown.

Gaston shrugged again, watching his reflexion in the beer. “Christ, I’m handsome.”

LeFou laughed. “Yes, you are. Very handsome.”

He nodded, eyes still on the drink. “I know. Thank you.” Then drank it all in one gulp. And then another and another and another, until the happy drunk Gaston usually was became the sad, closed off drunk that he turned into when he drank one beer too many.

“Gaston?” LeFou called, as Gaston looked into the fireplace and swallowed his sixteenth beer in a gulp. “Stop doing that,” he told him with a soft voice, gently taking the stein from Gaston’s hands. “What’s wrong?”

Gaston bit his lip to avoid tears and then sighed. “I’m afraid I’m becoming my father,” he confessed, rubbing his eye with his palm.

“Gaston,” LeFou sighed, putting his hands to Gaston’s hair, soothing it. “You’re not him. You never will be him. You’re better than him in every way.”

However, his gentle mix of praise and comfort fell on deaf, drunken ears. “I’m just like him,” Gaston continued, as the last customers left. It was probably — a quick glance at a blurred clock — two in the morning.

“No. No, you’re not.”

“I am,” he said, nodding. “I am. LeFou… I’m… I take after him, every little, fucking, thing.” He sobbed. “Everyone’s always told me so, they can’t possibly be all lying. I’m like my father in everything. My, my looks and, how I act—”

“That’s not true, Gaston.”

Gaston nodded, licking his lips as tears spilled. “It is. I drink and I become violent, and…”

“Gaston, you’re not violent.”

“Yes, I am! You know that more than anyone!” he yelled. Then put his hands to his head and let out a groan. “That’s what I mean. I’m so fucking… so fucking short tempered and, and I drink so much, and I don’t know why. ...You should leave. Before I actually become my father and I…” A sob. His stomach turning around at the mere thought of hurting LeFou. “I… beat… I beat you… or just… hurt you in any way.”

“...Gaston, I know you get violent and I know you have a short temper. But that doesn’t mean you’re bad or anything. It means you went through some shit not many people understand. Your father abused you and was neglectful, and you became the leader of an entire army at _seventeen_. That _has_ to leave a mark. ...But it’s okay,” LeFou assured, kissing Gaston’s temple. “You’re okay now.”

With a sob, Gaston leaned his head against LeFou’s soft chest. LeFou wrapped his arms around him, soothing hands calming him down and gentle lips being pressed against his head with care. “Thank you,” Gaston whispered, muffled by LeFou’s elbow, as his eyes slipped close.

It wasn’t what Gaston meant to say, but it’d do. He was sure LeFou knew it was another way of his to say “I love you”.


	2. 21

Gaston lit a cigarette with the help of a nearby burning candle. The window to his bedroom was open, letting the summer breeze creep in and help his body cool off. Elise lied beside him, sighing as she fell asleep. Gaston had wanted to tell her to go home but then he had glanced at the clock on his mirrored chiffonier and had given up on it. At one in the morning she’d spend the night better in Gaston’s bed.

Gaston hated it.

He hated the way she snored gently, and he hated the way he had to forget about the smallest of shitty memories with the help of a quickly rolled cigarette and cheap whiskey, he hated how much he has become his mother, going off to sleep with strangers only to feel even emptier inside. At least, that’s what he thought she had felt. Gaston couldn’t help but wonder what lead her to that. And if she had ever accepted payment.

He shook his head and took a big drag. She hadn’t been a prostitute, she’d never do such things. She had been a respectful woman with a respectful husband who did not love her.

What if that was it? ...Did Gaston have anyone who loved him? If not, was that why he spent his nights wide awake, waiting for the faint chirping of birds to fall asleep? Why he drank himself to a stupor nearly every night, to forget about the beatings and forget about his mother’s and father's lovers and forget about the near-death experiences during the war?

Yes.

He was alone. He had always been alone and it was eating him up from the inside.

Covering his mouth with the hand that held his cigarette, he sobbed, something that shook his body. He took a final drag before eyeing the cigarette and then his thigh. With a sigh, the smoke leaving his lungs through his nose, he stubbed it out on the naked skin, thrusting his head forward in pain as unwanted tears spilled. He gasped for air after throwing the cigarette to the ground. Then he drank the remaining whiskey in a couple of big swallows without as much as one breath. Grimacing, Gaston put the bottle to the floor and dressed up.

He glanced at Elise and headed downstairs, stumbling. He stepped out of the door but then realize he should take at least a bottle of grog with him. After getting one, he headed outside with it in hand. The night air grew colder and Gaston began to regret only taking a waistcoat and a light jacket with him.

He left to the hill just above Villeneuve, the one a few miles over the graveyard with all the dead from the War. The moonlight shone upon hundreds of graves, including his parents’, which he was staring at. They had ignored his request of their graves being apart.

Gaston took a gulp and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. His father’s grave stood in front of him, he knew that despite his illiteracy. There was a small Star of David engraved in it, to which detail Gaston smiled bitterly. At least they had remembered. Then again, it _could_ be his mother’s. Which made Gaston’s task of destroying his father’s grave harder.

Then he remembered. He only put flowers on his mother’s grave, ever since it had been covered with dirt. The grave in front of him had no flowers. He smirked to himself, nearly finished the grog, and then threw the bottle at the grave, smashing it to glass pieces.

Then, as his temper got the best of him, he screamed at the top of his lungs, the enraged shout then lingering in the air. “You ruined me!” he yelled, punching the stone, the pain that jolted through his knuckles absolutely insignificant in relation to the years of pent up rage he had towards his shitty excuse of a father. “You’re the reason I’m like this! You’re the, the reason I’m a fucking piece of absolute… _shit_ just like you!” he shouted, then kicking the grave to the point it cracked. “You fucking worthless fuck! Fuck, I wish I had had all this… this courage to tell it to your face! But no! No, I had to fuck some… girl and drink an entire fucking bottle of cheap whiskey to realize LeFou was right! I did de-deserve better!” Gaston let himself fall to his knees and put his hands to his hair, pulling slightly as he sobbed and cried. “You’re the fucking reason I’m like th-this. You and your, your stupid fucking… anger. I’m just like you and it… makes me fucking _sick_ ,” he whispered.

 

The church bells rang loudly, striking eight in the morning. The ringing nearly shook Gaston’s body as he blinked and squinted. His head hurt beyond belief and the smell near him was making him sick to the stomach; he was sure he would have thrown up if he had any food left in his stomach. Gaston got up to his feet clumsily, supporting himself with an hand on top of a grave. Right. He had passed out drunk in a graveyard. _Fantastic_. He sneered at his stupidity and then again at the blazing hot sun. He spit on the grass, forgetting for half a second this was a _cemetery._

Then, he stumbled his way down to Villeneuve, stopping by a small lake to check himself out — just to make sure he didn’t look _completely_ disheveled. Luckily, he just had to tuck in his tunic and straighten his breeches. Gaston winked at his reflection the best he could and kept walking. Then he stopped again, only this time it was to bend over himself and try to empty an already hollow stomach. Eventually, he spit some bit of bread onto the sandy floor.

Villeneuve was loud. Too loud. Every little noise made his head pound in pain. Gaston made way through the villagers, avoiding the usual “Good day!”s and questions of “How are you today, Captain?” and such, and headed to his cabin, by the borders of the village. It was some sort of rustic hunting lodge he had moved into after the War. He liked it, it was warm and cozy and, above all, quiet. Gaston let himself fall on the couch, passing out once more.

It did not last long, however, for LeFou woke him up with a chirpy “Good morning!” that faded when Gaston groaned and turned on himself. “Gaston, what’s— Oh.”

Gaston squinted at him and then followed his gaze to meet a half naked, embarrassed Elise. “Fuck,” he murmured, sitting up. “Go get yourself dressed and leave. I thought you were going an hour ago.”

“You didn’t tell me anything,” she said, having taken it personally.

“I didn’t have to.” He turned to LeFou, who had closed the door and was covering his eyes with a hand, his other busy holding a sack full of groceries and a bag with bread, baguettes poking out. “Sorry about that,” he said before letting out a breath and getting to his feet, though dizziness soon took hold of him and he had to lean on the couch’s arm. “Sorry about… this, as well.” He laughed but LeFou didn’t give him a reply beyond a concerned look.

“I take it that you were drinking,” he said, lowering his hand and walking to Gaston’s kitchen, just behind the living room. “Your clothes are filthy; where did you spend the night? At a brothel?”

Gaston laughed, a robust sound. “I wish, my dear friend.” He stumbled to hold the door for Elise, who gave him a little wave before leaving, then slammed it close, immediately regretting such when the headache in his head began pounded once more. “Shit.” Gaston walked to the kitchen and leaned on the counter as LeFou took out a baguette and began making Gaston breakfast. “Add it an egg, will you?” Gaston asked, brushing a strand of LeFou’s behind his ear gently.

LeFou laughed, something both nervous and genuine. He giggled again and then licked his lips. “You don’t have to do… _that_ to get me to add it an egg, Gaston,” he said, glancing at him.

Gaston frowned, his hand still behind LeFou’s ear. “Do what?”

LeFou opened his mouth to answer but after a couple of interchanged glances he closed it and smiled. “Nevermind.”

Gaston shrugged it off and patted LeFou on the shoulder before pouring himself a glass of water. He drank as he watched LeFou move to boil an egg like he had asked him to. He put the glass down with a sigh. The previous night’s events were still blurry for him but he did remember one thing. How he had felt like he had no one like his mother and how he was absolutely alone. But he had been wrong; he realized so now. LeFou was right there in front of him, like he had always been. With that smile and those gentle, kind eyes and hands and the warmth of his mere existence. Gaston scoffed. Christ, he sounded like some girl. “LeFou,” he called, as his headache began to very slowly fade away.

“Yes?”

“...Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter is Huge i never wrote so much for one single chapter man,


	3. 22

Three years. He’d be a lonely, alcoholic, has-been wreck for three entire years. Sure, he had LeFou and he was more than thankful that his friend was still by his side, and that he was still so unquestionably loyal to Gaston. But as he sat in the front row of Tom’s wedding next to LeFou and Dick, who was weeping a bit, he wondered for how much longer he could be his careless, bachelor self. And then again as he thrust into an unfaithful woman that had been flirting with him since the party after the wedding had begun. He wondered for how much longer he could keep _this_ up; fucking the wives of other men and needy widows. Surely, he couldn’t do it until the end of his days. He moved to bite at her neck in impulse and she pushed him away, something that broke Gaston’s train of thought. “What?”

“Don’t bite me, he’ll notice,” she said before letting out a muffled whimper. “Christ, you’re good, Captain.”

Gaston grinned and kissed her neck instead, pushing her dress upwards. He breathed through his nose heavily, trying his best at being quiet. She was sitting on a table right by the side of a window and he was sure if either of them made _one_ noise, they’d be caught. He grunted softly, smirking against the pale skin of the woman’s neck — he thought her name was Julie. The thrill was incredible and before too long his hips stuttered and her hand flew to her mouth as she arched her back.

None of them spoke as they rearranged their clothes and smoothed down their hair. Gaston was the first to go back inside, Julie standing outside to clear her makeup up. He sat at his and his friends’ table, right next to LeFou, who frowned at him. “Where were you?”

“Outside, getting some air,” he said, scratching his flushed neck.

“Uh.”

“Does the air wear fancy red lipstick?” Dick asked with a snort. The whole table shared a laugh except for Gaston and LeFou, Gaston who simply smirked and LeFou who huffed. “Oh, come now, LeFou, don’t be jealous! I’m sure if you ask nicely, Gaston will have you behind some sleazy tavern like that he had that woman.”

Gaston scoffed and shook his head. He moved to slice a piece of deer meat with his dagger and he eyed LeFou whose face was bright red. “I'm not jealous,” LeFou finally spoke, chewing on a slice of bread.

“It’s alright,” said Gaston, before taking a swallow from his drink — red wine in a cup. “I know I attract men and women alike. After all, I _am_ quite the catch.”

“It’s true,” Dick said, nodding. “I remember Stanley here fancied him during the War.”

The poor kid choked on his food and Dick had to pat his back, earning a snort from Gaston as well as a snarky “You did?”

“No! I just looked up to you!” he defended himself, hitting Dick in the stomach.

“It’s alright if you did, LeFou has for the past decade or so.”

“That’s not funny,” LeFou murmured in protest.

Gaston sighed with a smile and patted his knee gently. “It’s only a joke, my friend.”

LeFou choked back some sound — Gaston was sure he heard a whimper — as his eyes set on the hand on his knee and then on Gaston’s. “Yeah, alright,” he said, nodding. He looked away before long, Gaston, however, did not. He kept looking, almost as if studying his friend. Studying the way he moved, the way the corner of his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the way he glanced every now and then at the unmoving hand on his knee, and specially the way he looked over at Gaston in even shorter glimpses and how his face seemed to turn redder by the second.

Gaston finished his drink and leaned in to whisper into LeFou’s ear. “Get up and let’s go outside, alright?” He felt him shudder.

“Okay,” he murmured.

Gaston put his cup down, let out a breath and rose to his feet.

“Where’re you goin’?” Dick asked, slurring his words.

“Get some air. LeFou.”

He followed Gaston’s lead and got up as well, then gave Dick and Stanley a small wave before following Gaston to the back of the tavern. And then back inside when they found Julie and some other man humping. LeFou pulled Gaston’s sleeve. “Was that who you were with?” he murmured when Gaston hummed inquisitively.

“Yep. Seems like she’s a pretty busy woman.”

LeFou chuckled and Gaston smiled. LeFou’s laughter was one of his favorite sounds in the world. He stopped by a door on the side of the place and held it open for LeFou, who left in a quick pace. Gaston stepped out himself and closed the door behind him. He looked around. They seemed to be in a slim alley between the tavern slash restaurant and the house next to it. Gaston frowned as he looked up to the house. The only window up high was closed and with a small, barely audible sigh he looked down at LeFou with a smile.

“I’m a pretty busy man myself,” he said, walking to him.

“I’m sure of it, Gaston. Do you, do you want to talk?”

He shook his head, his hands moving to LeFou’s face. “Not at all, my friend,” was all he whispered before pressing his lips to LeFou’s for the first time in what seemed to have been decades. LeFou whined, his hands flying to Gaston’s chest and pulling at his waistcoat. Gaston pushed him against the brick wall and let his hands roam elsewhere, one stilling by LeFou’s neck, brushing away his hair, and the other setting on his waist. Christ, how he had missed it. Missed how LeFou squirmed ever so slightly, and how his breath quickened, and, above all, how his hips rolled subtly. But then something changed. LeFou pushed him away with trembling hands. Gaston stood few inches away from him, frowning in confusion. “What are you doing?”

“What am _I_ doing? What, what are _you_ doing!?”

“Kissing you, I thought that was obvious.”

“Well, why?!”

“...I missed it, LeFou.” He wet his lips. “You still taste the same.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You still taste the same. Sweet. Like the candy we shared as children,” he spoke as he moved closer. A smaller kiss. “A bit of beer, though, which is new. But everything else…”

“Jesus, Gaston.”

“What?”

LeFou looked at him and they gave each other a Look; something that could not be described by anyone other than those who shared it. And then LeFou kissed him. Come think of it, it was the first time LeFou did something like that. Gaston felt something in his chest, a tight but enjoyable feeling that he hadn’t felt in years. Fuck, fuck. He took a couple of steps back, withdrawing from the kiss and leaving LeFou confused. “What’s wrong?”

Gaston didn’t reply, simply took in a breath and looked everywhere but at LeFou. He ran his index and middle finger over his bottom lip and, feeling his heart beginning to pound, he blinked a few times before taking deep breaths.

“Gaston?”

 

"I'm fine! Alright? I'm... fine."

LeFou’s brow twitched. He knew he was lying, Gaston knew that. LeFou could always tell. “Okay.” And he left, and as soon as the door closed Gaston felt regret flooding through him. It quickly — too quickly — turned into rage, and before Gaston knew he was doing it, he was punching the wall of the house with the brick wall and closed window. After the anger faded away and his knuckles were bruised and bleeding, he leaned his forehead against the wall. Then he slammed it against it, the last bit of anger finally leaving him and letting him breathe. He gulped in air and sobbed quietly as he ran his shirt sleeve over his eyes, wiping dry the tears. Another deep breath, a quick wipe of his knuckles against his breeches, and Gaston was opening the door to return to his table. LeFou was talking to Dick but immediately stopped when he saw Gaston. His eyes widened and he jumped off his seat to go to his friend. “Jesus Christ, Gaston, what happened?”

“Yeah, lad, you’re all fucked,” Dick said, frowning at him.

Gaston wet his lips and nodded once. “Yeah, well, I was in a fight, actually.”

“ _Shit_. We should have seen the other guy, huh?” Stanley joked.

Gaston laughed along, trying to lighten the mood and make LeFou stop looking at him with _those_ eyes. The worried eyes. “What? I was. I beat him, of course.”

“No one fights like Gaston!”

“See, Stanley knows it,” he said, putting a hand to his shoulder and grinning over at LeFou. “It’s alright, LeFou.”

“Let’s go,” LeFou said, putting a hand to Gaston’s arm.

Gaston instinctively flinched and withdrew. “Don’t touch me,” he said, frowning at LeFou. He walked up to him after a moment of silence, where they exchanged looks and Gaston looked down at his two friends to say his goodbyes. “Don’t do that again,” he murmured as they walked to Tom’s table.

“I apologize, I wasn’t aware it upset you.”

Gaston shrugged; there was a lump forming at his throat and he already regretted bringing it up. “Tom! My dear friend,” he said with a smile as he got to the table. Tom looked at him and grinned, but it quickly faded. Gaston, unaware of it, kept talking, “Congratulations! And Jeanette, you too. Anyway, I’m afraid LeFou and I must go—”

“What happened to your face?” Tom asked, frowning and nodding at the bruise on Gaston’s forehead, barely an inch below his widow’s peak. Gaston ran his fingertips over it but put his hand back down when he remembered his knuckles weren’t in a much prettier state. “Gaston,” Tom started, his voice taking that chiding but caring tone to it.

Gaston laughed. “What? I was in a fight, that’s all. Right, LeFou?” He turned to his friend and put a hurt hand to his shoulder, squeezing lightly.

LeFou took in a breath and nodded. “Yeah. He beat the man dead. Not _actually_ dead, though.” Gaston gave him a look as if to say, “Thank you, that's enough” and LeFou closed his mouth.

“Alright. You did have fun, though, no?”

“Of course! But LeFou insists on getting me home lest I drink too much.”

“I can't exactly disagree with that,” Tom said. “Take care of him, alright?”

LeFou nodded and, after both said goodbye to the bride and the groom, walked away with Gaston.

 

Gaston finished the leftover brandy from the night before and put the bottle away as LeFou sat down in his couch next to him. He took Gaston’s hand in his and, after sinking the cloth in cold water, gently wiped his knuckles, covered in dried blood.

Gaston hissed as soon as the freezing cloth touched his healing wound. “Ouch.”

LeFou murmured a “Sorry” before withdrawing the rag and taking a look at Gaston’s wounds. With a frown, Gaston watched as LeFou kissed his middle and index fingers and pressed them carefully to his knuckles. “There you go.”

Gaston breathed out a laugh, a smile tugging at his lips. “We haven’t changed a bit, have we?”

LeFou laughed, something gentle and kind, as he continued to clean the blood. “I suppose not. You’re still my closest friend.”

“And you’re mine,” Gaston said, brushing strands of LeFou’s hair away from his eyes. His hand stopped by his cheek and he bit the inside of his cheek to avoid smiling at how warm LeFou was. Just like he always had been. He held his breath as LeFou looked up and they locked eyes. LeFou looked tired. Dark circles softly lied under his brown eyes, now seemingly black, seemingly endless. Gaston sighed. He was so beautiful. LeFou was so, so _magnificent_ , he thought as his hand slowly drifted to the back of his head, fingers tangling in LeFou’s soft hair. He blinked, and found himself much closer to him than before. He could see the stubble that faintly darkened LeFou’s skin, notice how his Adam’s apple bobbed nervously, how his forehead somewhat glistened with sweat, how his eyes were barely even open. Then he kissed him.

And this, this was different. This wasn’t a hurried make out behind a tacky restaurant in a dark alley. It was something softer, something gentler, something better. It was love. Christ, he loved him. He Loved him.

Gaston withdrew slowly, giving LeFou time to give him a final brief kiss. He inhaled deeply, letting his hand fall on the couch as he tried to ignore the return of that tight feeling.

“Wow,” was all LeFou said when he finally caught his breath. Gaston blinked and looked at him. LeFou had that childish smile on his lips, looking even more like a kid with a crush as he brushed his hair behind his ear and giggled. Gaston didn’t giggle, or smile even. His brow furrowed, and he sat up, looking from LeFou to the water basin. “Gaston? Is there something wrong?”

Gaton shook his head and looked at LeFou. The post-kissing glee that was left was noticeable only in his eyes, worry had taken over his features. He forced a smile, trying not to concern his friend any further. “It’s just the knuckles. And the head; I think I had too much to drink, that’s all.”

LeFou didn’t say anything at first, and Gaston’s smile almost faltered. “You don’t have to lie to me. You know I know you, Gaston. I know when something’s wrong and I know when you’re lying.”

“I’m not lying,” Gaston protested with a scoff.

LeFou sighed and shook his head. “Alright. I’ll bind your hands and then I’ll leave you be,” he said, finally finishing cleaning Gaston’s left knuckles. Gaston knew he was trying to get the truth out of him but being stubborn as a mule, he wouldn’t actually ever admit if something was wrong. He never had before, there was no reason to begin being open about his feelings now.

Feelings, anything other than _manly_ emotions (which, in Gaston’s opinion, didn’t count as actual emotions) weren’t exactly met with warmth or comprehension in the LeGume household when Gaston was a child, but rather with the back of a hand and yelled insults. So, because Gaston feared both of those things more than he feared the wolves in the woods, he learned how to bottle them up, how to hide them away. Whenever he got upset, he would have take a few deep breaths before he was back to his charmful self.

But LeFou knew better. He knew Gaston for too long and he knew him too well to believe he was absolutely fine all the time, even in times of distress. Gaston blinked again, finding his lashes wet. He swallowed and looked at LeFou, who smoothed down the bound knuckles with his thumb.

“I worry about you,” LeFou said as he looked up at Gaston. “I really do.”

Gaston scoffed. “Why?”

LeFou shrugged and set Gaston’s hand on his lap before taking his other. “Because we’re friends, I… suppose.” He didn’t sound very sure of himself and Gaston’s brow trembled in confusion.

“We’re _close_ friends,” Gaston said, trying to cheer him up, and earning a small laugh from LeFou. “We are.”

“Yeah, Gaston.”

Gaston sneered when the rag brushed too roughly against his skin. “You won’t actually… go when you’re done, will you?”

“Hm? Oh, no,” he replied, shaking his head. “You’re drunk and I don’t trust you alone when you’re drunk.”

“Why not?”

“Because like I said, Gaston,” he said, putting away the rag and beginning to bind Gaston’s wounds, “I care about you. And…” he bit his lip, frowning, before letting out a sigh. “Nevermind.”

“No, what’s wrong? ...LeFou, you can’t tell me to talk about how I’m feeling and then pretend you’re alright.”

LeFou smiled a sad, defeated smile and nodded. “You’re right. But you have to say what was troubling you earlier, behind the tavern.”

Gaston let out a breath. “Alright.”

LeFou began rubbing his thumb over Gaston’s palm. “It was during the war. The battle had been terrible and we had lost plenty of men and… you got drunk, as usual. And, being the friend I am, I went to your tent. I had this feeling in my gut that, that you weren’t okay.” Gaston suppressed a sigh as he began remembering that night, his eyes drifting away. “And you weren’t. You had stabbed yourself. And there was… so much blood, all over my hands and... and your hands and your clothes and the ground and..." he wet his lips, "I was so terrified, I just… I want you to be alright. I want you to be safe, Gaston.”

Gaston scoffed, ignoring the tears that prickled his eyes. Was he really _that_ unused to being cared about? “That was in the _war_ , LeFou. Over… what, three years ago? I’ve changed. I don’t…” He bit his tongue. He was incapable of completely lying to LeFou. Sure enough, he lied about how many drinks he had had often, but that if the lie was Gaston not drinking at all, he wouldn’t be able to say it.

“You don’t, what?”

“Nothing.”

“You still hurt yourself?” LeFou’s voice trembled a little when he asked it, and Gaston glanced at his knuckles as if to tell him that the answer was right in front of him.

When he didn’t realize what Gaston was trying to do, he spoke. “Not like that, I don’t.”

“But… Gaston, look, I…”

“LeFou,” he interrupted. “It’s fine. It’s alright. I’m still alive.”

LeFou sighed and moved to wipe Gaston’s forehead. “I care about you,” he repeated and Gaston didn’t say anything this time, instead of trying to change subjects discreetly. “Whether you think you deserve it or not,” LeFou added, putting the rag aside.

Gaston took in a deep breath and gulped, then shut his eyes tightly, as if to try to make the tears disappear. He wasn’t wrong. Gaston, that is. LeFou was. He shouldn’t care about Gaston, he _shouldn’t_ , there was no redeemable feature about him besides his beauty. But that was it.

Gaston put an hand to LeFou’s back when he put his arms around his neck, the lump in his throat getting worse as LeFou pulled him close.

Yes, beauty and maybe a little bit of brains — not too much, he couldn’t do much besides strategy — was all he had to him. And what did _those_ get him? His beauty got him sex, his little brains got him a war won. But he and the memory of him would fade away with time. How could they last forever? People said with love. But what did Gaston know of love?

He never got any. His mother was too busy with work and men, his father was, well, his _father_. The closest thing he had to someone who loved him unconditionally and constantly was LeFou. But he couldn’t love him or, better yet, he couldn’t admit he loved him — because he _did_ , he knew he did — but Christ’s sake he was Gaston, there was no one in Villeneuve half as manly as him, he wasn’t some mary.

“Gaston?”

He blinked at looked over at LeFou. “Yes?” he said with a small smile that did not reach his eyes.

“What was bothering you earlier? You still haven’t told me,” he said, putting the basin away.

Gaston sighed. “Nothing, really.”

“Gaston,” he said. His voice was persistent and Gaston could sense one tiny bit of what sounded like disappointment and if there was something that would set him off into a breakdown was that.

“I’m…” He bit his tongue, realizing that apologizing wouldn’t do any good. “Kissing you,” he finally replied, staring down at his right hand, watching the bondage turning a dark red slowly as the wounds reopened.

“Kissing me?”

“Yes,” he replied, glancing at LeFou for a mere second before sitting up and keeping his gaze to his hands.

“I… I don’t think I understand. You were, you… you initiated all the… kisses.” Gaston wet his lips as his began fiddling with his shirt. “Why would you… you know, kiss me if—if it upsets you?”

Gaston didn’t reply. He took in a deep breath and smoothed down his hair, then got up and stumbled towards the liquor cabinet.

“Gaston.”

He rested his forehead against the cabinet window. “Because I like it. You’re soft and… and gentle, and sweet, and… everything I’m not.” He opened the door and got a bottle of brandy, then poured himself a glass. “Do you want one?” he asked, turning to look at him.

LeFou shook his head. “I’m good.”

Gaston nodded and put the bottle back to its place, closing the door with one hand as his other held his glass. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“It would never cross my mind, Gaston.”

Gaston looked at him and chugged down the drink, placing the glass on a nearby table after. He sat down on the couch again and let out a sigh, hand to LeFou’s hair. He smiled at him warmly. LeFou’s eyelids fluttered and Gaston let out a soft laugh. “LeFou.”

He looked up at him with glazed over eyes. “Yes?”

“It’ll be us, forever, alright? I’ll never… leave you. For anyone.”

“...Not even a woman?”

“Not even _ten_ women,” Gaston joked, smiling at him.

LeFou laughed. “What about whatever the amount of women you sleep with?”

Gaston’s smile dropped but it quickly returned as something softer. “Not even those many.”

LeFou let out a dry chuckle, borderline scoff, and put his hand to Gaston’s free one, running his thumb over the bandage. Gaston felt his heart squeeze. Christ, how he liked LeFou.


	4. 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry this took like 10 years

Gaston groaned as he let himself slide down the wall and sit on the floor. The money from four years ago, from his victory in the War, was too damn close to being null. The widows he once had shared a bed with were getting remarried and something told him the former would not happen again, or at least as frequently. So alcohol had become the only thing keeping him away from doing what he was seconds away of doing. Ending his own miserable, sad, pathetic life. And that, too, had ended an hour ago, the wine bottle now lying sideways by the door of Gaston’s bedroom.

He looked down at the gun, a companion from the War and a close one at that. The metal grip of the flintlock pistol felt heavy in his hands. He had loaded it right after coming back from the tavern that evening, assuming — rightly so — he’d need it for later. LeFou had stayed serving drinks but, as much as he had wanted to stay there with him, the tavern was too loud and too overwhelming for Gaston.

As he sighed and wiped away wayward tears to his shirt sleeve, he went over what could have triggered the breakdown that had destroyed his mirror and his will to live, reaching only one conclusion: LeFou’s absence. But he was not to blame, of course. It was all Gaston’s fault. As always.

It was Gaston's fault his father corrected him and his mother. It was Gaston's fault LeFou had had near death experiences in the war. It was Gaston's fault LeFou had been in the war in the first place. It was Gaston's fault his father had died. It was Gaston's fault his _mother_ had died (even though there had been no way he could have had prevented it). It was Gaston's fault not all marauders had been killed and thus war had been declared. It was Gaston's fault LeFou woke up crying every other night, plagued by nightmares of a combat he should have never fought.

He sobbed and looked now, contemplating his soon to be killer and tracing his fingertips over the trigger and the muzzle. It’d be quick, at least.

Tears ran their way down his cheeks, cutting and burning like knives, Gaston now too tired to wipe them dry. What was the point? He was weak, he knew that. He always had been weak and pathetic and foolish and an idiot—  _Click_.

He frowned and his head snapped upwards when he heard the noise from downstairs. Great, did they really have to interrupt him _now_? With a frustrated breath, he got up and walked to open his bedroom door by a creak. Squinting his eyes ever so slightly, he peered.

“Gaston?”

He froze in place, his chest starting to tighten. He murmured a “fuck” before stepping backwards, away from the door, and looking around. Another “fuck”, louder this time. His room was an absolute _wreck_ , much like himself. Glass pieces on the floor, blood spilled over them, half of his furniture on the ground, his clothes scattered. He held the gun tighter when the door opened, short in breath.

“There you are, you left in such a hurry, I—” LeFou’s gaze stopped in Gaston’s hand, then slowly moved around the room, his eyes wide. “What happened?” His expression went from confused to worried when he set eyes in the bloodied glass. “Gaston, Jesus, are you alright? Are you hurt?” he asked, getting close to him and turning his head, looking for wounds. He found them only in Gaston’s right hand, small cuts that bled out, staining LeFou’s fingers. “Give me that,” he said, holding out his hand so Gaston would do as he said and hand him the gun. But he didn’t; he simply held it tighter, closer to himself. “Gaston, please.” Squeezing his eyes shut, he shook his head. “Gaston.” Another shake of his head, and Gaston’s knuckles turning white. “ _Gaston_!”

He pressed his lips into a tight line and held back a sob. His hand was beginning to hurt from how strongly he was clutching the weapon. Gaston felt LeFou’s hands pulling at it, trying to get rid of the danger he was carrying in his hand. When he finally did so — Gaston had released it due to weariness —, Gaston winced and curled into himself a little, awaiting the hard smack to his face. It did not come; instead, a soft hand touched his cheek. Gaston let out a noise (he didn’t want to call it a whimper) and stepped back. “Don’t, don’t touch me,” he sobbed, finally opening his eyes. His head was reeling in the worst possible way and everything felt simultaneously too far away and too close to him.

“I’m sorry, I forgot.”

He sobbed and let himself fall to his weak, wobbly knees. He sat down and pulled his knees close to his chest. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. You didn’t do anything. I’m sorry I yelled. ...Do you mind if I tidy up your room? Make sure it’s safe and everything,” LeFou suggested as he kneeled next to him.

Gaston glanced at him before putting his face to his arms. “Sure.”

LeFou kissed his temple. Gaston sobbed, rocking himself back and forth as a way to calm down. He found comfort in it, always had since childhood. When it got too loud at home and he couldn't get away, he'd always curl into himself and rock back and forth; everything just seemed to get better and quieter. “Gaston.”

“Hm?”

“What happened?”

Gaston shrugged. “I got mad at myself for…” He bit his lip and shook his head. He couldn’t open up, it was stupid and only made everything about him — just like he _always_ did. Who cared if he broke nearly everything in the room because he couldn't handle being without LeFou for a few hours? It was childish and ridiculous, like himself.

“For what?” LeFou hissed and Gaston’s eyes widened, his head snapping to look at him.

“Are you hurt?”

“Just a little cut,” LeFou said, smiling at him, before suckling on the wound in his thumbpad. “Nothing too bad, don’t worry.”

Gaston’s shoulders dropped in relief. He watched LeFou as he put the broken glass away and folded his clothes, as he got his furniture up and back to its place with no help and only a few breathy grunts. Gaston wiped his eyes to his sleeve once more and took LeFou’s hand to get up and sit on the now made bed. “I can’t thank you enough, LeFou. I’m sorry you always have to clean up after my fuck ups.”

“This wasn’t a fuck up. You got upset. That’s alright.” When Gaston didn’t reply, LeFou took his wounded hand in his. “May I?”

“Yeah,” he sighed.

The binding was quick, LeFou wasn’t interrupted by bad jokes or snarky comments and, besides, he had quite nimble hands. The bed creaked as he got up to put the bandage and pocket knife away, Gaston admiring LeFou’s work. His attention drifted from it when he heard LeFou speak. “You kept it.”

He looked up to check what LeFou was talking about and smiled faintly when he saw him carefully holding a wooden sculpture in his hands, putting the silver necklace that was draped over it on the furniture. “Yes,” he sighed. “Why wouldn’t I?”

LeFou stammered, his cheeks turning pink. “I, I don’t know. It’s been so long and… it’s so poorly done now that I’m looking back at it,” he said, putting the buck back on Gaston’s bedside table.

Gaston smiled. "Well, I think it's lovely, LeFou."

“You're just saying that because you like me,” LeFou said.

Gaston laughed and patted the space on the bed next to him with his healthy hand. LeFou sat next to him without question and took the bottle away from him when Gaston showed too much difficulty in opening it. “It’s only because my hand’s injured,” Gaston said, making LeFou laugh.

The first shared swallows were fun. They laughed, told amusing war stories, LeFou even dared Gaston to kiss him gently for more than five seconds. And so Gaston did, pressing his lips to LeFou’s, his hurt hand on his cheek as his healthy one held the bottle.

But then as the drink began disappearing, Gaston’s good humor followed its steps. He handed LeFou the nearly empty bottle with a limp wrist. “I should… I should go back to, to being a hunter.”

“A hunter?”

“Mhm,” he said, nodding. Gaston fell back to the mattress with a sigh. “I’m afraid, my little LeFou… that… if I do not kill an animal…” He paused, unsure of where he was going with his statement. The bed groaned once more as LeFou got up and stumbled to get another bottle from Gaston’s stash of various alcoholic drinks. It had been secret for about two years, but LeFou had found it when he had been moping the floor as Gaston had drunkenly sung war songs from his bed. He sat up to get another swallow — beer, this time. He sighed heavily and watched as LeFou drank. As his adam’s apple bobbed beneath the loose ribbon, as a small stripe of the drink dribbled down his lower lip and chin. Either Gaston was drunker than he actually believed himself to be, or his lifelong friend really was that damn attractive. Gaston accepted the bottle back, eyeing LeFou up and down slowly, devouring every single inch of his body. Yes, definitely the second one, he thought to himself with a smirk before leaning in and licking the stripe of beer away, LeFou’s breath hitching. He kissed him again, harder than before, longer than before as well. “I’m afraid I’ll kill myself instead,” he finally confessed as a whisper.

“Wh—what?” LeFou gasped. “No. Don’t… No. I don’t… I don’t want to lose… lose you, G.”

Gaston’s shoulders dropped, himself softening at the nickname. “G?”

“Gas—Gaston is… it’s so long,” he mumbled, laying down. “Please don’t… please don’t kill yourself.”

Gaston sighed and chugged down a good portion of the beer, grimacing afterwards. He squinted to see more or less properly where he was setting the bottle down, then lied next to LeFou, hooking an arm around him and pulling him close. “Do you want to come along?”

“Mhm,” LeFou replied. “I don’t… want to be away from you. Ever,” he said, his voice oozing sleepiness and drunkenness.

Gaston didn’t reply at first, simply turned his head around and pressed his lips to LeFou’s forehead. “You won’t.”

“You… you mean… everything to me, G. _Everything_.”

Gaston closed his eyes, beginning to feel drowsy as well. A tear fell, making the bridge of his nose itch a little. "What did I do to deserve you, my friend?" he whispered against LeFou's skin, getting only a small, sleepy grunt in reply.


	5. 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm So Sorry i took so long i kept postponing updating this + my bf is visiting and so i was Pretty busy and everything  
> i have another 2 chapters done i think & will try to update this soonish tho  
> anyway belle is finally Here

The market was full, lively, as it always was by nine o’clock. Prices were being announced along with “G’day!”s and “Bonjour!”s. The smell of freshly baked bread filled the air, all mixed with the sweet perfume of the flowers in display not too far away from the church. Right by the town's square is where the smells all blended together — fresh flowers, the reeking of the fish, sugary pastries right after the warm bread, and, of course, the metal-smelling raw meat from the butcher’s.

Gaston walked that way backwards, hands holding the dead deer with missing antlers that was draped over his shoulders, as he talked to a very attentive LeFou about how the game in the summer was infinitely better than the one during spring, and occasionally replying to questions about his wellbeing that morning with a charming smile. “You see, some people believe spring is the best time to hunt but it's actually summer or even mid-autumn,” he explained to LeFou, as if he hadn't said this very same thing on the way to the woods. “Especially if you want the antlers because—” He was interrupted by a sharp gasp and a wet squelch. Frowning, he turned on his heels in no time, an apology already leaving his lips. When he noticed the girl that started to crouch to get and clean her precious object, he simply dropped the deer on LeFou without a word — who, thank Heavens, caught it — and crouched himself. Without the fear of getting his hands dirty (although a small siren in his brain _did_ begin wailing when he touched the mud), he recovered the thing before getting back to his feet.

“I appreciate it but,” she started only to be interrupted by Gaston calling LeFou.

“Yeah?” he said, muffled by the deer in his arms that was definitely too big to be there.

“Do you have a kerchief for this…”

“Book,” the woman said, sounding fairly annoyed.

“Book!” Gaston repeated, grinning at her.

“I do, but it’s in my pocket and, well…” He looked down at the carcass.

“Ah. Well, in that case…” Gaston reached for LeFou’s pocket and, once he had the kerchief in hand, began wiping the cover and muddy pages carefully and thoroughly. “There you go,” he said, handing her the much cleaner book. “And your name is…?”

She took the book from his hand and held it close to her chest, folding her arms across it. She sighed. “I’m Belle. You must be Gaston.”

He grinned, oblivious to her displeasure, and wiped his hands clean. “Yes! Captain Gaston, actually but…”

“I’m LeFou,” he presented himself, still from behind the deer. Upon realizing his friend’s situation, Gaston was quick to pick the dead game and put it over his shoulders. LeFou brushed his hair off his face and smiled at Belle.

“You’re the village’s hunter, hm?”

“Yes, I am. Chances are if it’s in your plate, it’s thanks to me.”

“He’s really good at it, too!” LeFou praised with an enthusiastic nod and grin.

“Thank you, LeFou.”

“I’m sure of it,” she said, starting to walk away, clearly trying her best to get away from that conversation. “Is that your war uniform?”

“It is! You know, I saved all of us from the invaders. But it's not much of a big deal, really,” he said, shrugging. (Did he always sound that desperate for praise and validation or was it just because he had never seen that woman in his life?)

“That's... nice.”

“Well, what book are you reading?”

“...Romeo and Juliet.”

Gaston puckered his lips, frowning in thought. “Never heard of it. LeFou?”

“Oh, it's by, um, Shakespeare. Right?”

Belle perked up. “You know Shakespeare?”

“I mean, sort of.”

“What's your favorite play?”

LeFou stammered before laughing. “I don't… really have one. I can't read. I mean, I could but I forgot how to.”

Her excitement died and her shoulders dropped. “Oh, alright.”

“LeFou knows a couple of poems, though.”

“I, no, Gaston, come on.”

“He does, he's just too shy… Well!” Gaston cleared his throat and grinned at Belle. “You should come with us to the tavern some day.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I’m actually pretty busy then,” she said, walking off.

“I didn't even mention the date!”

She mumbled something Gaston could not comprehend and something in his brain clicked. He wasn’t sure what it was, but there was definitely something there. “Huh.”

“I think she just rejected you.”

“ _Huh_ ,” he repeated, squinting at her. “LeFou.”

“Yes?”

“How insane would it be for me to marry her?”

LeFou laughed loudly and wheezed, making Gaston look down at him, frowning. LeFou’s laughter died in his lips when he looked up at him. “Oh. Oh, you're serious.”

“Of course I'm serious! Everyone's married but _me_ , and I'm not going to get any younger.”

“You're twenty-four.”

“Exactly. At twenty-four, my parents had had me.”

LeFou blinked at him. “I mean, I suppose. But, you know, _I'm_ not married and I'm doing alright,” he said, putting a soothing hand to Gaston’s arm. He winced a bit at first but then softened.

“I suppose. I…” He swallowed and shook his head. “I'm going to marry her,” Gaston said with a convinced nod, as he began walking towards the butcher’s once more, ignoring the occasional curious look he got from people. He clenched his jaw; he must have looked truly disturbed by Belle’s rejection.

“Gaston, you know I’m your friend and all but…” LeFou hummed thoughtfully before continuing, “marriage is something that should happen between two people who love each other. Not some… random girl you barely know.”

“I do know Belle: she likes to read, especially Shakespeare. And her favorite color’s blue, I’m guessing,” he said, turning his head to the path she had taken, trying to get a last glance at the dress. “ _And_ she likes to show her bloomers for some reason.”

LeFou snorted a laugh but shook his head. “Gaston, that’s not love. You talked to her for five minutes, minimum. You have to know someone to fall in love. That’s what makes it so great,” he said, with dreamy eyes that looked from Gaston to his own boots and a small smile that grew by the second. Gaston wasn’t sure he liked it.

“You sound like you know a lot about it,” he commented, turning to look in front.

“I mean… I don’t consider myself an expert or anything but,” he laughed a little, “yeah.”

They were silent for a while and, noticing their proximity to the butcher’s, Gaston stopped on his tracks.

“What’s wrong?”

He took in a breath. “Marriage being about two people who love each other is bullshit. My parents didn’t love each other and they got married,” Gaston simply said, still frowning, before taking large steps to the butcher’s stand and slamming the dead deer on top of it, making LeFou jump a little. “Jacques!”

“You don’t have to yell, Jew,” Jacques replied, turning from flirting with a maid to give Gaston dirty looks.

Gaston scoffed. “You’re seriously still with that shit? Just pay for the deer.”

Jacques withdrew the pipe he was holding and imitated gagging. “That’s what I feel about your… Is that shit missing its antlers?!”

“You know I take them off to keep them, you idiot.”

“Gaston,” LeFou said through fake coughing.

“Alright, I take that last part back. Pay up.”

“Nah, I ain’t paying for a shitty deer like that.”

Gaston blinked at him. “You’re not…” He took in a deep breath and rubbed his eyes with his index and middle finger, trying to pull himself together. “Listen, paying me less than I deserve because my father forgot to take down our menorah once is one thing. Not paying me at all because I did what I always do is _another_.”

“Yeah? What’re you gonna do?”

Gaston wet his lips, glancing at the lady Jacques had been flirting with. “You’re married, isn’t that correct?”

Jacques was taken aback and straightened his posture, sucking on the tip of his pipe. “Yes.”

“I mean… I don’t know about you, but if _my_ wife had been cheating on me, I’d be pretty fucking pissed. I’m sure your wife will feel the same way when I tell her about your little escapades with Mademoiselle Laure.”

Jacques stared at him before laughing. “ _Really_ , LeGume? You’re here tryin’ t’ teach me about cheating? _You_? Whose dick has been in well more than half of the married lasses in Villeneuve? Whose father did the exact same _fucking_ thing to your mother and vice versa?”

“Hey!” LeFou called out, as a muscle above Gaston’s eye beginning to twitch. “Watch it. You don’t want to pay Gaston, don’t pay Gaston. Pay me instead.” He held out his hand, waiting for Jacques to hand him the money.

Instead, he stared at LeFou’s empty hand, frowning. “How do I know you ain’t some heathen like the kike?” he asked, nodding towards Gaston, who took in a sharp breath, his fists, that rested on top of the stand, clenching as well as his jaw.

“I go to church every Sunday, you’ve seen me,” LeFou said, making a grabbing motion with his open hand. “Pay up. I won’t accept less than 400 livres, you hear me?”

Jacques scoffed. “You sure are feisty for a mary,” he said before moving to get the money.

“I’m _sorry_?”

“What did you just call him?”

“Called him a mary,” Jacques replied with a shrug, placing the dirty coins in LeFou's hand. “Why? What’re you gonna do about it?”

“Fucking make you—” He was stopped by LeFou’s hand on his arm, holding him back.

“Gaston. Deep breaths,” he whispered.

Gaston took in a breath and straightened his posture, hands to his jacket’s lapels, adjusting them. He cleared his throat. “It was great making business with you again, Jacques,” he said with the falsest grin he could muster. It dropped once he turned around and left with LeFou by his side. “Why do people call you that?”

“Call me what?”

Gaston frowned, chewing something invisible. He pursued his lips and took in a breath. “A mary. I don’t like saying it, it sounds like it’s something bad.”

LeFou didn’t reply, just smiled quite sadly and shrugged. “I don’t know. I try not to think a lot about it.”

“It is something bad, though, isn’t it?”

LeFou sighed in reply, raising his eyebrows. “Yeah.”

“...I don’t want people to call you shit like that,” Gaston said, more of an order rather than a wish. “You don’t deserve it.”

LeFou let out a dry chuckle and sniffed. “Yeah. I don’t. But what can you do?” Gaston sighed and put his hand to LeFou’s hair, petting it. “It’s a small village.”

“That doesn’t mean people get to be asses about it, LeFou.”

“I never thought you’d be so nice,” he joked.

“I have my moments,” Gaston replied earning a laugh and smile from LeFou. He put his hand down and nodded to the tavern’s entrance. “Should we go to the tavern?”

LeFou stopped in his tracks and Gaston followed suit. “My shift starts in…” He leaned his head back to check the church’s clock. “An hour.”

“Is that a no?”

“Gaston,” LeFou said, looking back at him with a smile on his lips, “you do realize you have to pay for your drinks when I’m not working.”

Gaston frowned in confusion. “I thought I did pay for them.”

“Well, I’m too sweet to let you waste about forty beers worth of livres.” Gaston huffed and LeFou let out a small laugh. “There, there, my Captain, there’s no need to sulk. I think Tom is working right now, and I’m sure he’ll at least give you a little fifty percent off.”

Gaston smirked and nodded, convinced. “I’m sure he will,” he said, starting to walk to the entrance of the tavern. “I’m like family!”

The tavern was mostly empty, save for the staff and one customer, Dick. Tom was wiping the bar counter, while Dick leaned against it, talking to him. His attention was drawn to movement on the stairs and he greeted Gaston and LeFou with a grin and a wave. “Mornin’!” he said. “What will it be?”

“If you say a beer,” Tom started, looking up from the counter to Gaston and squinting, “I will hit you.”

“Alright, Pierre, calm down,” Gaston joked, earning no one’s laugh but his own. “What?”

“You know I don’t like when you joke about your father,” Tom reminded him, straightening himself and cracking his back. “It’s not funny.”

“Neither is the war, and we all make jokes about it,” Gaston commented.

Dick laughed. “I mean… he’s not wrong.”

Tom stared at him, borderline glaring, and, when Dick’s smile had been wiped off his face, he turned to Gaston. “ _Correction_ ,” he said, “Dick and you make jokes about it. I don’t and neither does LeFou.”

“LeFou does make jokes!”

“I just laugh at yours,” he said with an apologetic smile and shrug.

“Fine! Why can’t I make jokes about it?, he hurt me not you.”

“Because it’s not a laughing matter, Gaston. Like you said, he hurt you.”

The group was silent for awhile, Gaston and Tom having some kind of stare off and neither of their friends wanting to get in between. Gaston let out a breath and cleared his throat. “He didn’t hurt me, really.”

Tom sighed and shook his head. “Do you two want to eat something? We got bread, butter, some leftover rabbit and stew…”

“Oh, I’ll have the stew,” LeFou said, crossing his arms on top of the cleaned counter.

Gaston shrugged. “Bread, I suppose.”

“Toast?”

He nodded. It wasn’t until Tom was well away from the counter that Dick yelled “I want the rabbit!” at him. “He never listens, I swear to God.”

Gaston snorted and looked over at LeFou, who chuckled. Gaston began speaking about the game that week, how deer had never looked as beautiful and about how he was getting new antlers ready for the tavern’s chandeliers. Tom was quick at arriving with his friends’ breakfast. LeFou swallowed the stew with a smirk. “Gaston met a girl earlier.”

“Is that so?” Tom asked with a frown, taking a bite off a slice of bread with smoked bacon on top.

Gaston nodded, chewing on his bread. “Her name’s Belle,” he said as he withdrew a kerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth. “She seems to be very passionate about reading, especially… Sh...Shakes…”

“Shakespeare,” LeFou finished.

“Thank you. I decided to marry her.”

Dick’s mouth slacked open and he dropped his rabbit leg. “ _Marry_ her? Didn't you just meet her?”

“Well, yes, but it's what I told LeFou: marriage doesn't need to be between two people who love each other. Just look at Tom!”

He was taken aback and frowned. “What do you mean look at me?”

“Do _you_ love Jeanette?”

Tom blinked, his face beginning to turn red in embarrassment. “She's… a lady.”

“She sure is, Tom,” Dick said, laughing.

“See? Tom doesn't love her but they still got married. And besides, we'll learn to love each other with time!”

“That's not how it works!” LeFou said, riled up.

“Why do you care so much, LeFou?!”

“Because I—!” LeFou bit his lip, containing himself. He took in a breath, still frowning, and sighed. “Because I don't want you to be stuck in a loveless marriage, sleeping around because your wife doesn't satisfy your needs or because she hates you. I don't want you to get worse, Gaston,” he added, finally looking him in the eye.

“What do you mean ‘get worse’?”

“You have problems and ignore them using sex and alcohol. Constantly. And those are problems too. You’re stuck in a vicious cycle where you ignore your issues with even more issues.”

Gaston laughed and finished his breakfast.

“Don’t laugh! This is serious! I’m worried about you, Gaston. I care about you, believe it or not. And I highly doubt marrying some woman just because she was the first person who didn’t fall to your feet when you grinned is a good idea.”

“Listen, LeFou, I understand that you’re fond of me but I do _not_ have problems, and I _will_ marry Belle, whether you’re concerned or not. Make no mistake about that.”

“Why do you want to marry her so badly?!”

“Why do you care?!”

“I asked you first!” LeFou retorted.

After a moment of silent, Gaston spoke, “I already answered you: I’m getting old.”

LeFou scoffed in reply. It was Tom’s turn to comment on the subject, now that he had recovered from the jab at he and his wife’s relationship. “I’m actually very sure Belle is a shiksa, anyway,” he said, trying to talk his friend down. “I thought Jews couldn’t get with non-Jews.”

Gaston sneered, frowning. “I seriously doubt that; it’s not as if the assimilation hasn’t already started. Jewish or not, I’m going to marry her.”

Dick, who had been silent for a long while, finally made his deep voice be heard. “I don’t think you should marry someone out of impulse,” he told him. “Love is important in marriages. If there’s none there, they become bitter and sad, and the both parties might even cheat—” he stopped in spite of himself, remembering how much of a sensitive subject it was for Gaston. “Sorry.”

“Why? I’m not some sensitive maid,” he spat, clearly angered by his friend’s attempt at not hurting him. “I don’t want you to avoid talking about things just because it might make me remember about how my—” He bit his tongue and took in a breath. “My point is, I don’t care.”

“Clearly you do,” LeFou commented. “You’re getting all heated up over us saying you shouldn’t marry some girl you barely know.”

Gaston huffed. “I’m not. Ad what if I don’t know her yet? We’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other after we marry.”

“Gaston, I seriously doubt she’ll even say yes. And besides,” LeFou added, “she’s about four years younger than you are.”

“My mother was six years younger than my father.”

“And obviously that relationship ended up fine,” Tom mumbled, both seriously concerned over his friend and almost-brother and slightly annoyed at his stubbornness. When Gaston shot him a look — a stare, very cold and very fiery all in one (similar to the ones he got from Gaston’s own father when he stepped out of the line and called him out on his treatment of his family) — he tensed up instinctively before sighing. Gaston was burly, sure, but he still looked up to Tom, something he could definitely use in his advantage to get him to quit on wooing that girl. “Look, I’m with LeFou. Relationships don’t work when there’s lack of love. I don’t just mean romantic ones, either. Would your relationship with any of us have worked if we didn’t love you and you didn’t love us back?”

“You’re speaking as if the love I feel for L— you,” he corrected himself quickly, glancing at LeFou for half a second, just to check if he had noticed, “is the same as the one I will eventually feel for Belle!”

“It’s not, but it applies either way, Gaston! Relationships are based around love; why do you think there are so many women in this village that know men out of wedlock? Because they’re unhappy in their marriages. Because they don’t love and aren’t loved back by their spouses,” he lectured.

Gaston was silent, processing what he had just heard. Sure, he respected Tom (and desperately sought his approval, just like he would seek any father or brother figure’s), but what he was speaking was utter _nonsense_ . “I love Belle and she _will_ love me. If she doesn’t already, that is. You know Villeneuve’s women, Tom, for Christ’s sake! They all fall for an ex-Captain.”

“She didn’t,” LeFou murmured as he finished his stew. “And you don’t love her. You became infatuated with her after she _rejected_ you.”

“What?”

“You’re tired of easy prey,” he explained, using hunting metaphors, once he knew Gaston would definitely understand better if it was done that way. “You’re tired of every single woman falling at your feet and calling you “sir” and “Captain”,” LeFou continued, speaking the titles in a falsetto while batting his eyelashes, mocking them. “You’re tired of how easy they all are. How they’ll… fuck you just because you walk up to them with that Gaston charm and call them pretty. Whether or not you realize it is irrelevant, because it is the truth. So, because you’re sick and tired of hunting rabbits, you’re now going for bigger game. Deer. Wolves. _Belle_. By rejecting you, she did something neither of the other women could do and that is get your full interest. You said it yourself, once, in a hunting trip: “it’s the ones that are hard to get that are always the sweetest prey”. You like a challenge, and I don’t blame you for that,” he said, reaching a conclusion, as Gaston listened — _really_ listened. “But… women aren’t game. Belle is a girl with hopes and dreams, and you’re going to destroy all of them by going after her as if she were the rarest doe in the planet.”

Gaston took in a breath and sighed. “Like you said, I like a challenge. Belle is a challenge to me—”

“She’s a person, Gaston,” Tom reminded him with care, knowing exactly where he got that thinking from.

“Alright.”

There was a long moment of silence, everyone eating, Gaston looking down and ignoring the fact he could feel his friends’ eyes burn holes in him. Finally, once Dick was finished, LeFou spoke once more, “Look. You’re my dearest friend, I don’t have any like you. If you want to go and chase Belle in what will end up being a fruitless hunting, then go for it. Just… don’t break anyone’s heart.”

“And whose heart would I be breaking, exactly?” Gaston asked with a laugh.

“That of someone who is very dear to you,” LeFou simply answered.

Gaston looked over at him to demand an explanation that made more sense than that, but with glance to his face, he shut his mouth. He wasn’t a fool, he knew that when LeFou made up his mind about being done talking, there was nothing he could say to get him to open up. (It had occurred multiple times in conversations about their friendship.)


	6. 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they fuck!

The tavern was full for a Wednesday night, and Gaston sat in his chair, eating some leftover bread from lunch dipped in olive oil, as he told war stories to LeFou, who listened with the utmost attention as if it was the very first time Gaston had spoken the words “And there I was in the battlefield” and as if LeFou hadn’t been to the battlefield himself. Gaston paused, glanced at LeFou as he chewed on his snack. Then he smiled at him. LeFou giggled, his right hand tightening around his left before he moved it to brush his hair back, still stupidly smiling back at Gaston. “I love hearing your stories, Captain,” he said, letting his arm rest on top of the chair, hand grazed against Gaston’s neatly brushed hair. “They’re all so exciting and full of detail.”

“Thank you, LeFou! Now,” he said, putting his hand to LeFou’s leg (it always seemed to make LeFou get up and walk faster), “will you get me a beer? I’m quite thirsty.”

“I-I, yeah. Of, of course, sir,” LeFou replied, choking on his words and nodding.

Gaston frowned as he watched him walk away. Why would he have called him ‘sir’? More importantly, why had him calling Gaston ‘sir’ gotten his breeches tighter? He shrugged it off after seconds, ignoring it and the feeling that aroused in his gut. When LeFou sat back down with a stein in hand, Gaston wrapped his arm around him and pulled him close enough so that he was now sitting on his lap. The movement had been so abrupt, LeFou had nearly spilled Gaston’s drink.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed.

Gaston hid his smirk behind the cup as he drank and as LeFou squirmed in his lap, trying to find a comfortable position. Gaston groaned gently when LeFou rubbed his ass against him. In return, LeFou let out a barely audible gasp and turned to Gaston with wide eyes and mouth open to speak. Gaston frowned at him, although not the nasty kind at all, and eyed him up and down as his tongue darted over his lip. He locked gazes with LeFou once more, the tension nearly palpable, as LeFou stared at him slightly startled, as if he was waiting for Gaston to attack, and as Gaston stared back with a nearly voracious look, dark and piercing eyes staring right into LeFou’s nervous, eager ones.

And then he spoke, “Is everything alright, Captain?”, and Gaston let out a guttural, low growl in reply.

“Get up,” he ordered in a whisper, “and follow me to the back.”

LeFou bit his lip to muffle a whine and nodded.

 

Gaston let out a ragged breath, his teeth sinking into the soft flesh of LeFou’s now bruised shoulder. LeFou whimpered, the noise muffled by Gaston’s hand that covered his mouth to make sure he wouldn’t attract any undesired attention. Gaston sighed and let go of LeFou’s shoulder, then ran his tongue over the teeth marks. He kissed it, then his neck, and whispered, “I’ve waited for so long, LeFou,” his hot breath hitting LeFou’s ear and making him shiver. “You've been driving me mad since the war.”

LeFou sighed and bucked his hips instinctively, making Gaston groan against his damp skin and his thrusts get faster and less precise. LeFou moaned something muffled and Gaston smirked as he managed to hear his name in the mess of a sound.

“You sound better than all the whores I’ve had here before,” he whispered, moving his hand to grip at LeFou’s ass cheek, making him whimper. “Feel better, too.”

After that came silence, filled only with the occasional small gasp and ragged breathing, and then came LeFou, gasping for air from behind Gaston’s hand as it tightened more and more. And after him, finally, with a noise that sounded too much like a moan of LeFou’s name drawled out, came Gaston. He kept pressed against his friend, pulling out slowly as he kissed the bruises and the bites softly.

Gaston cleared his throat and buttoned up his breeches, straightening his clothes as well. He put his hand to LeFou’s shaking shoulder. “Clean yourself up, yes? I’ll be inside.”

Without as much as a glance back, LeFou nodded. A smug smile tugged at Gaston’s lips when he noticed how much LeFou’s legs faltered. He was greeted with the loudness and clatter of the tavern — men drunkenly singing along to the music the band played, a couple of people dancing to it, steins being clunk together, among others — that was muffled by the heavy wooden door he had closed behind him.

When LeFou returned, Gaston was already midway through a second beer and singing along to whatever made up song the elderly sang. It was cheerful and perky, and Gaston kept interrupting himself with laughter. “LeFou! Come sit by me! We’re singing — what are we singing, exactly, Nicolas?”

Nicolas, an old man that had fought under Gaston’s orders in the war and that looked beyond intoxicated in happiness and gin, gave him a shrug and laughed. “I know not exactly myself, Captain!” he replied with robust chuckles.

Gaston laughed, and patted his thigh for LeFou. “Seriously, sit down, it’s fun! Besides,” he said, as LeFou made his (wobbly) way to his lap, “I know you’re quite the singer.” He finished the sentence with a pinch to LeFou’s flushed cheeks.

LeFou giggled and shook his head. “Sure, I am.”

“You are! Oi, Nicolas.”

“A-yes, my Captain?” the drunk man said, turning to him.

“Did you know LeFou here, he used to sing to me when I was upset because of…” He trailed off, every single drop of cheer in him disappearing as he remembered his father. He blinked rapidly and shook his head, then smiled at him. “Nevermind about the reason. The point is, LeFou sang me a song about how incredible I was when we were children. How did it go again, my friend?”

“Come on, Gaston, I’m not going to sing in front of all these people,” he murmured, as a crowd began to shift from various places in the tavern to near Gaston. His booming voice had that effect.

“Please, LeFou, do refresh my memory. I’ll help you if I can remember it.”

LeFou cleared his throat and sighed. Then he handed two coins to Gaston so he’d give them to the band playing. When they got the rhythm LeFou played by clapping his hands and tapping his feet, he began. It was a soft “gosh, it disturbs me to see you, Gaston” at first, almost a murmur. Gaston encouraged him to sing louder with claps and telling the audience to do just the same. Soon, it became a roaring, lively “no one fights like Gaston, douses… lights!, like Gaston” with laughs interrupting the lyrics from both himself and Gaston. The audience cheered, danced to it, clapped and even sang along when LeFou pointed at them. It eventually ended with a huge, thundering, incredible acapella of Gaston’s name, LeFou’s voice getting that almost operatic tone Gaston enjoyed so much.

Taking the opportunity as everyone got up to refill their glasses, Gaston kissed LeFou, softer than he had had outside. “You were incredible. What did I say? You’re quite the singer.”

LeFou stammered and shook his head, smiling. “You are, too. No one sings like Gaston,” he joked, singing the phrase.

“And no one’s a great friend like LeFou,” Gaston sang back, rising his stein to him and grinning. LeFou broke out laughing, obviously overwhelmed.


	7. 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> life is. a lot right now sorry i haven't really been active, i'm struggling with writer's block atm :-/ :-( but anyway! i hope you enjoy & i want you guys to know that every kudos makes my whole existence!!! they make me very happy and really hype about continuing this fic :-)

The room was silent and it was only interrupted by their panting breaths, followed by the _clink_ of a couple of livres falling on the wooden table. Gaston got up and put on his clothes as quick as he managed without looking the woman in the eyes, closing the door with a bang. The brothel was lively, too lively for his taste in fact. His head began to pound and, dreading a hangover, he decided to stop by the bar. The bartender, _Luc_ , scoffed when he saw Gaston with disheveled hair and tired eyes. “What, Gaston? Can’t handle a girl once in a while, are you too used to the touch of that mary?”

“Shut it, fucker,” he replied. He rubbed his eyes and looked around. The brothel seemed to be fuller than usual and Gaston frowned. “Why’s it that you got more men here than they do at the tavern?”

“The tavern doesn’t provide them pleasure now, does it?” Luc said, giving Gaston two glasses of whiskey.

“If you're smart enough to know where to look, it does,” Gaston replies with a smirk. “But really, this place is fucking crowded.” He took both shots in a row and grimaced as the alcohol burned down his throat.

“It’s the War Anniversary. And you call yourself the Captain.” Luc laughed and Gaston sneered at him.

“The _Prince_ did, actually. Just fill me up again, you ass.”

He snorted but did as Gaston told him. “Why aren’t you with your fellow men, huh? Is Captain Gaston too good for the common soldier?”

“God, _shut_ _it_.”

“And here I thought kikes couldn’t say God. You learn something new every day! Now, pay up. I don’t want you here, _Captain_.”

Gaston exhaled through his nose and fished for a livre and slammed it on the counter, then chugged down the whiskey. “And why’s that?”

“All my women are looking at you instead of possible clients,” he growled, sliding the livres close to himself.

Gaston grinned and walked out. He stopped only by the fountain, sitting on the edge and looking around. Villeneuve at dusk was beautiful, truly ethereal. The red and orange from the sun painted the village so delicately it was like looking at a painting. He smiled, letting out a dry laugh, at the cheer that came from next to him, from the tavern. He should join them, he thought, participate in some drinking and singing like they did every year. But his chest felt heavy and he had no interest in singing songs that would bring him back to the nights before battle. So he went home instead, and prepared himself a hot bath to get rid of the smell of sex before possibly, _maybe_ calling LeFou over to celebrate their win in private. He did enjoy spending time with LeFou away from everyone else; it felt more intimate.

He carefully took the bucket of boiling water upstairs, to his bathroom, and poured it into the bathtub, a shining golden metal one, that he had bought right after coming back from the battlefield. Gaston wasn’t a fan of bathing by himself. Having LeFou nearby had always been the usual, not just when bathing but in general. They were inseparable. Gaston opened his eyes to fit the ceiling. The bathroom was dark, save for three candles he had lit and the sun that began disappearing outside his only window. Gaston sighed and moved his gaze to the mirror that stood in front of him, leaning against the rock wall. It was full length and Gaston had been extremely excited to bring it over. He hated it now. He hated _himself_.

Which was why he couldn’t stand being alone, ever. He was actually sure being alone with his thoughts was far scarier than going into the Dark Forest by himself. He couldn’t stand lying in a hot bath, drowning himself in boiling water and self-pity. It felt so alone and so dark and so… scary. As he felt tears begin to spring, he clenched his fist, as if the pain would stop him from crying. His nails weren’t long enough, however, so within seconds he was suppressing sobs.

He eventually calmed down and got bored of feeling sorry for himself. Then he actually began to bathe, humming and singing war songs he still remembered, the somber lyrics sounding even darker in Gaston’s rough voice. He got startled by the sudden memory of his camp being cannoned at night and so his singing stopped with it. He decided to hurry up his bath.

He dressed himself slowly by candlelight as he looked out the only window in the bathroom. It had begun raining lightly and Gaston watched the raindrops tap at the window as he buttoned up his waistcoat, scoffing at how stupidly sad his reflection looked. Understanding he was too tired to actually do anything but sit on the couch looking out the window with a stein full of grog, he pulled on the silk black ribbon that tied his hair behind his head. He let the curls fall on his back, some slipping on his shoulders, and then ruffled his hair, strands now falling over his eyes and covering his shoulders.

Wearing his hair like that, he thought as he put on his stockings and breeches, was always difficult for him. As a child he had begun to wear it back due to the name calling in either whispers from his mother's supposed friends or shouts from Luc and his companions. It was at age thirteen, when he had put his hair back to wash his face one morning that he had discovered he didn't look twice as bad. When LeFou had told him he thought he looked pretty, Gaston had stopped wearing his hair down completely. Even now it made him look like less of what everyone called him as a child.

He stopped on his tracks when he heard the door shuffle open, and stood frozen in the middle of the staircase as he looked down at a cheery LeFou that waved goodbye at some people outside. “LeFou,” he greeted, confused, still unmoving, after his friend had closed the door behind him.

“Gaston! Hi, I… I didn't know if you were coming to the tavern to celebrate so I came here to check if you were here — which you are — and to check if you wanted any company.”

“Sure. I'm only planning on sitting by the fire and having a drink, anyway,” he said, finally making his way downstairs.

LeFou lit the fireplace carefully as Gaston filled two cups with beer from the barrels down in his cellar. “Everyone at the tavern,” LeFou started as he got up and sat by the fire, “is wondering where their captain is.” He murmured a thank you when Gaston handed him his drink, and took a sip.

Gaston sat by his side, on the couch that reeked of grog and whiskey, and even a little wine. His head felt fuzzy from the alcohol he had had at the tavern already and he sighed. “Their captain is too busy feeling sorry for himself and drinking himself to a stupor. Not much different than what he did during the war.”

LeFou turned to him, worry spread across his face. “Gaston—”

He shushed him and finished his drink without taking a breath. “I'll be alright, I do this nightly.”

“That's not good.” LeFou got up and snatched the empty glass from Gaston's hand. “You have to stop drinking so much, it's not good for you.”

Gaston rolled his eyes and scoffed. “I've been drinking since I was fourteen, obviously it's fine, else I'd be dead.” LeFou shook his head in response, and Gaston got up, heading to the liquor cabinet.

“Gaston,” LeFou called, his voice sounding tired. Gaston took in a sharp breath, ignoring the small voice in his head that told him something along the lines of ‘He's grown tired of you just like everyone else’, and poured red wine into a whiskey glass. “Is this because of Belle?” he asked, almost scared of the answer.

Gaston laughed, something bitter, before drinking all the wine in only a couple of swallows. “It's more than Belle and, and her… rejections. It goes beyond that and it goes beyond the war. It's about… me and my, my uselessness.”

“Your _what_?”

“My uselessness, my stupidity, my… Christ, my selfishness.”

“Are you insane? You're not useless, Gaston,” LeFou said, going to him and trying to stop him from drinking any more. “And neither are you stupid or selfish. You won a _war_ . You're anything but what you said. You saved your company and you saved this village _and_ your country!”

“At what cost, LeFou!?” He closed his eyes and sighed. He began scratching his wrist, only to be stopped by LeFou's hand on his. “I killed my men. And I killed my mother and I killed my father.”

“Your father deserved to die.”

“He did not! He raised me!”

“Poorly! ...He beat you!”

Gaston closed his eyes and shook his head. He hated when LeFou used the b word when talking about his father. “He didn't.”

“He— _what_?!”

“He didn't beat me. He was somewhat of an ass, but he didn't beat me.”

“You're kidding.”

“I'm not.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Gaston poured himself another glass and drank to try and forget the bad memories that began surfacing, right before beginning to walk away.

“Gaston.”

“He didn't beat me.”

LeFou scoffed. “Like I didn't see it!” Gaston stopped in his tracks, frowning, his eyes brimming with tears. “Like he didn't hit you in front of me, more than once!”

“Don't yell at me,” was all he could manage after a long moment of silence during which the memories of the moments LeFou had mentioned repeated in his head in a constant loop. “And I am useless; you're just too blind to see it.”

“What?”

“I don't… I don't know.” He walked back to the liquor cabinet and sets the glass down. “Get out of my house,” he finally said, as he closed the glass doors as gently as he managed.

LeFou didn't move. “No.”

“Are you denying an order from me?”

LeFou clenched his jaw, frowning at Gaston and attempting to look as menacing as possible. “This isn't the war, Gaston. I'm your friend and you're drunk, and I am not leaving you alone.”

“This isn't— Everything is the war, LeFou! It's a goddamn _battlefield_ out there!”

“No, it's not. You're just in mental distress and need to stop drinking.”

“I'm in _what_?”

“Mental distress. The war had the worst kind of effect on you and now you just… it's like you go back to being this village's captain when you're not anymore. We're not at war and you don't need to be so alert.”

“Who's to say a war won't start any minute now? God knows if Portugal won't send more men to get back at us. To get back at _me_ and _my_ men.”

LeFou didn't reply. He closed his eyes and sighed. “I miss you.”

“I'm right here.”

“I know. But lately you've been… off. Distant. And…” LeFou bit his lip and reached to touch Gaston's arm with a gentle hand. “I don't want you to go away. I know you can't help it; Père Robert has told me it's all because it's the anniversary of what caused you all this pain. But still, I don't want anything to change between us, Gaston. You're my closest friend and I don't have any like you.”

“Nothing has caused me pain,” he dismissed it, as if his head wasn't bursting with undesirable memories of mutilated corpses and pools of blood. As if he hadn't just lost any and all sense of reality as panic sorted through his body, making his heart almost stop altogether, and as he nearly re-lived said memories — the blood and its stench seemed unbelievably real and Gaston could not tell for the life of him if they were or not. When he snapped from it, he found himself gasping for air and gripping the border of the liquor cabinet tightly enough for his knuckles to turn white.

“You had one of those memories, didn't you?”

“Don't send me to the asylum,” was all Gaston said in reply. Sure, that had happened to him before but he had always been by himself. He had never had a problem with his reliving of memories in front of somebody else, and it felt not only humiliating, but terrifying as well.

“I'd never.”

“Promise me.”

LeFou sighed, placing his hand by Gaston’s, drawing his attention to him. “I promise.” When he smiled at him, Gaston felt a stab through his chest; never had LeFou shown such a sad smile.

“Do you care about me any less?” he whispered, truly terrified of both speaking about his feelings and the answer LeFou might have had for him.

“What? No, Gaston,” he replied, smiling more brightly at him now, and put his hand to his arm. “You’re my closest friend no matter what. That and how much I care about you is not going to change because of… this.”

Gaston didn’t like how LeFou didn’t have a name for what was happening to him, but was still comforted by his gentle touch and soothing voice. He chewed on the inside of his bottom lip and finally let out a sigh and nodded. “Thank you,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. LeFou kissed his cheek in reply. Gaston turned to him, his eyebrows twitching in confusion, and LeFou smiled at him. Without thinking, Gaston leaned in and kissed him. And, as much as Gaston wanted to blame it on impulsiveness, it clearly had nothing to do with it, because after pulling back, he kissed LeFou again. And again, and again, until they were both breathless and Gaston had to kiss him one last time to make sure he wouldn’t say _that_ word.


	8. 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prince adam is BACK i love writing him

The crowing of the roosters was heard faintly, soon drowned by the church’s bell announcing to all of Villeneuve that it was eight o’clock, and then by the chorus of “Bonjour!”s that every villager sang to each other daily, as part of their morning routine.

Every single sound described, plus the rays of sunlight that managed to creep into his room through closed windows and shut curtains, made Gaston’s head ring in the worst possible sense.

He groaned loudly and turned to his side, grabbing at his pillow and placing it over his head as he tried his best to get a grip of the last ounce of sleep that threatened to leave him. He managed to fall asleep again, if only for a while. He only began to slip off sleep when he started feeling his back warm up and then definitely awoke when he heard greetings from the triplets. “ _Bonjour_ , Captain!”

“It’s me, ladies,” he heard another voice say from nearby, definitely much closer to him than the LeBeaus.

Frowning, he turned around and sat to take a look at whoever was the intruder that had woken him up. It took a couple of squints and a rubbing of his eyes, but Gaston did finally realize who stood by his opened window, fully dressed and smelling of fresh flowers and bread. “LeFou,” he said, grinning at him, as if he weren’t in bed with an utterly massive hangover. “Mind, um, telling everyone to quiet down?”

“I do, actually. It’s nearly nine o’clock and you need to get out of bed and… put on some clothes.”

Gaston glanced down, found himself nearly uncovered (his sheet only reached half his thigh), and let out an “Ah”. “Yes, that is... definitely a must,” he replied, getting up and immediately hissing. “Jesus _Christ_.”

“Hangover?” LeFou asked, as he did every morning, with a tinge of worry.

“What? No,” he replied, trying his best to lie to LeFou. He couldn’t, not really, LeFou had a way of knowing things about him. “Just… tired, that’s all.”

LeFou hummed and began making Gaston’s bed as Gaston himself looked around for clean clothes on the floor and the wardrobe. “Was the brothel any good?”

“Lots of p— I didn’t go,” he hurriedly corrected himself, knowing deep down what LeFou was doing. Trying to get a confession out of him, as if he were some criminal. Was looking for pleasure in women and alcohol really that heinous? He turned to his friend as he put on his small clothes, LeFou looking at him with raised eyebrows and pursed lips. “Alright, I went but it was just for, what, an hour?”

LeFou rolled his eyes as he let out a sigh, walking to the window again. Gaston watched as LeFou crossed his shoulders over the window ledge then, after buttoning up his breeches and putting on boots, walked up to him and put his elbow to the corner. “Do put on a shirt, Gaston.”

Gaston grinned at him instead, waiting for LeFou to look at him before speaking. “I thought you liked seeing me like this.”

LeFou shook his head, but Gaston could tell he was affected by it, if the light blush on his cheek meant anything. LeFou then moved to pick Gaston’s clothes from the floor, putting his dirty laundry in a basket. “Here,” he said, as soon as he found a clean shirt, and threw it at Gaston, who catched it and reluctantly put it on.

Gaston brushed his hair back with his mother’s old brush, hissing through the black silk ribbon that sat between his teeth when he pulled too tightly, and then firmly tied it. As LeFou left to place the basket downstairs, Gaston pulled each suspender over his shoulders and rolled himself a cigarette to smoke by the window as he looked over the village from his bedroom. The bruit had moved away from his house and into the center of Villeneuve and he could finally enjoy the gentle burning sound his cigarette made as he took a drag and look around for Belle. It had been over two years, and well over a thousand “No”s and “I really can’t”s, and yet he still felt weirdly attracted to her. LeFou told him it was unhealthy, Tom told him it was delusional, Dick and Stanley shared both men’s opinions. Gaston seemed to be the only one who didn’t, for whatever reason he couldn’t put his finger on. (It was what LeFou had told him, he knew it to be so but avidly ignored it.) “Shit!” he hissed, when he spotted her and put the burning tip of the cigarette too close to his lips. In no time, Gaston was putting on his vest and grabbing his war jacket, both brightly red, and running downstairs. “I’ll be right back, LeFou!”

He couldn’t tell if he had actually heard LeFou say something about Belle under his breath or not, but was too busy trying not to look desperate and running at the same time to actually care. He stopped abruptly by the flower tent to grab some quickly and disappear right away, hoping that none of the women selling them would notice him. Alas, they did.

“And just _what_ do you think you’re doing, Monsieur?” The voice of the usual girl (it really was always the same young girl — about 3 years his junior — that caught him stealing) stopped him in his tracks. She stepped in front of him and took hold of the bouquet of roses.

“Taking these beautiful flowers to a lovely Mademoiselle. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll just…” He began to pull the bouquet in his direction, attempting to get rid of the seller’s grip. “Please, just let me take them, I’ll pay you back, I _swear_.”

“Just like you paid back the other five bouquets, isn’t it?”

Gaston opened his mouth to retaliate but lost his train of thought as soon as the loud, cheerful morning conversations became buzzing murmurs. He frowned and turned his head in the direction of the sound of wheels stumbling over the stoned pavement. Out of the corner of his eye he could spot Belle, face buried in a book as usual, as she walked, paying no mind to the carriage that moved too fast towards her. Only when the horse hit her and she and the book ended up on the ground did she care.

“Watch where you’re going!” she called out, raising herself to her feet quickly, hands gripping tightly at the novel. “Just because you have a carriage doesn’t mean you can just ride it wherever you want and run over people!” she kept going as she rounded the the carriage to look whoever was inside it in the eye. “Are you listening to me?”

The door opened with a click and everyone in the square fell silent, their hearts hammering and themselves shivering in anticipation. Belle took a couple of steps backwards allowing the person inside to step out. First a foot, in a blue and silver high heel shoe. Then another. Finally a hand with about three rings and then the person. Or rather, the Prince.

“I asked you a question, Your Highness,” Belle said, and Gaston could tell everyone was fearing for her and her tenacity.

He felt a hand on his arm and turned around slowly, eyes always on the scene unraveling before him. “What's happening?” LeFou whispered, gripping Gaston's sleeve. “Why is Belle talking like that to the Prince?”

“He ran over her with his carriage,” Gaston whispered back, finally letting go of the stolen bouquet of flowers and turning his body completely to Belle and the Prince.

“I am the Prince, and you will treat me as such.”

“Well, _I_ pay your taxes and am probably the reason you own those shoes.”

“Belle,” Jean the potter said, carefully approaching her, “please be careful.”

“Why should I? He should be the one to be careful, since he's out here running over his own people.”

It was Gaston's turn to step in, as he was almost the village’s leader and their voice of reason, and was certain that Belle would listen to _him_. “Belle, I'm sure the Prince didn't mean it,” he started, walking up to them and placing his hands on his hips and putting on a slightly condescending smile. He then turned to the Prince, who was eyeing him up and down with utter disdain in his eyes. “Did you, Your Highness?”

“...No.”

Gaston let out a satisfied “Ah” and grinned at Belle. “See? Now, all we have to do is apologize to each other—”

“Do shut up, Gaston,” she said, and Gaston could hear the annoyance in her voice. “You and the Prince are one alike. Rich men who think everyone, especially women, owes you something. Well, they don't. It's not because he's prince that he can walk in our village and run over people. And it's not because you were once captain that you can expect people to do as you say only because you say it.”

“You're the captain?”

Gaston turned to the Prince, slightly surprised by the minimal emotion in his voice. He blinked at him, confused beyond belief. “Yes. You were the one that made it so.”

The Prince hummed and raised his eyebrows, once again leaving the villagers perplexed with the amount of emotion he was showing. “I can't recall.”

“You c—”

“That's not what I'm here for, either way. Nor is it to… run over my people,” he said before clearing his throat and snapping his fingers. The fat man that rode the carriage hurriedly stepped down and walked up to the Prince to help him down. Gaston couldn't help but scoff. “I'm here to inform you all that my father, the King, has passed on.”

Gaston frowned, still not recovered from the shock that the Prince — the King? — didn't remember throwing him to the lions.

The King, Claude-Louis Guillaume, had never been his people’s favorite ruler. In Gaston’s late father’s opinion, he was actually the worst king Villeneuve and the other surrounding villages had had. Cruel and vindictive, he had been someone who wouldn’t hesitate in sending his people to war, as much as death was certain if they went. Not to mention the outraging taxes he had made his people pay, that his son then put no stop to.  Which is why Gaston wasn’t sad about it. In fact, he didn’t feel a thing about the King’s passing, and he was sure everyone else in Villeneuve felt the same. It didn't make a difference, him being dead or not, since King Claude had been replaced by his son little before the war, anyway. Besides, none of the rulers seemed to care that much about Villeneuve, or any surrounding village for that matter.

“I,” the Prince said, with that affected voice of his, “Prince Adam Jacques-Alexandre… shall be your king. The coronation will take place in a week but, due to all of your… quirks, none of you are invited. Especially _you_ , Mademoiselle. If you step foot into my castle I will have you executed.”

“Like father, like son,” Gaston murmured, raising his eyebrows.

The Prince didn't appreciate his mumbled comment, and his head snapped to look at him. Gaston frowned and tried to decipher what he was really thinking behind those piercing, cold blue eyes and that heavy make up à la mode. “Do not speak of my father again.”

“Is that an order, Your Highness? Pardon me, _Your Majesty_ ,” he taunted, smirk tugging on his lips. LeFou pulled him back by the sleeve of his jacket as if telling him to be careful. Gaston could tell the Prince was beginning to lose his composure and the chubby servant — he remembered him as Cogsworth — seemed worried. “Is it?”

“Shut it, rat,” he growled.

The villagers gasped and murmured between themselves, LeFou's grip tightening on Gaston's sleeve.

“I will not tolerate any lip from the kind of you.”

“The kind of _me_?! I pay your goddamn taxes, do I not?!”

“Do not speak to me like that!” The Prince said, losing his temper entirely as Gaston got near the same fate, being only held back by LeFou’s hand. “I am your Prince! I made you Captain and I can very well take that title away from you and turn you into _nothing_.”

“You sound so much like your father, Your Majesty,” he said, only to spite the Prince, as dangerous as it were. “The rotten apple really doesn't fall far from the tree, now, does it?”

Luckily enough Cogsworth was a sensible man who did not enjoy conflict in the least, and helped the Prince put on that emotionless, unfazed mask he wore. With a calm, almost eerie voice, he spoke, “Do forgive my behavior.”

Gaston contained himself and didn’t scoff, although he very much would have liked to do so. The Prince wasn’t even looking at him, the coward! He was looking everywhere _but_ in his direction, in fact, and Gaston hated it.

“Mademoiselle,” the Prince said, his tone so cold it felt like the market flowers could freeze mid-August, and stepped inside the carriage with Cogsworth’s help. A cloud of dust raised from behind the carriage as they turned and left.

Gaston coughed and waved his hand in front of his face, blinking excessively to avoid dust falling in his eyes. Then he walked up to Belle to try and fall in her good graces through their shared hatred towards the Prince. “Can you believe we have _him_ for a ruler?”

“As much as I can believe we had _you_ for a captain,” she said dryly before walking away and leaving him behind, frowning and wondering if she really thought he had been a bad captain.

Gaston later came to the realization Belle hadn’t actually been in the war, only heard stories from her old father. Still, it shook his very core and he quickly found himself home and pouring a drink.

“What are you doing? It’s eleven thirty,” LeFou said, in a somewhat reprimanding fashion.

Gaston downed the ale and took in a breath, then put the glass down and turned around to face his friend. He pursed his lips and spoke, “I believe Belle isn’t fond of me.”

LeFou’s immediate reaction was to laugh. But he was, after all, a well-educated man so he put his hand in front of his mouth as soon as possible and attempted to stop his laughing fit. “How long did that _take_ you? She’s been rejecting you for over two years!”

“Thank you, LeFou, truly,” he said in a deadpan tone. “I thought she was playing hard to get; you know women.” The only reply Gaston got from LeFou then was a raise of eyebrows and a sigh. Not wanting to wonder about whatever his friend might have been hiding from him, he shrugged it off. “But now… Now I do very much believe Belle just… does not appreciate me.”

“Yes, well, she’s...” LeFou stopped himself from saying anything too foolish. “She’s ungrateful and she doesn’t know how lucky she is that _you_ ’re after her.” Gaston’s back straightened at the slight praise, but he soon dropped his shoulders when LeFou spoke again. “But, speaking of which…”

“Yes, LeFou?”

LeFou clenched his jaw and sighed. “Well, does this mean you’re done chasing her?”

Gaston was taken aback by his question, blinking in surprise. “I’m not sure.”

“You, you should. ...She’s not interested and I believe she’s going to keep insulting you like that until you stop bothering her,” LeFou said.

Gaston scoffed. “Bothering her?”

“Yes…? You’re always talking to her when she _clearly_ doesn’t want to.”

He hummed and tapped his fingers on the table behind him, thinking. His strong fingers always hammering on the wood, as Gaston wondered and thought and pondered. Finally, when he realized he wasn’t going to get any actual, definitive answer form his friend, LeFou spoke again.

“You’re an ex-Captain, Gaston. The… strongest, most handsome man in all Villeneuve; you can have anyone— _girl_ … any girl you want. So why,” LeFou started, walking up to Gaston, “don’t you stop trying to hunt the biggest beast in the field, and focus on the rabbits and the does?”

Gaston clenched his jaw, frowning. “What women do I have, LeFou?”

“Well—”

“The women I take are either married, soon-to-be married, prostitutes or the _triplets_. And I am _not_ going to marry Eloise or Elise. They’d kill each other at the very ceremony.”

LeFou bit his lip. “What if you just don't marry at all?”

“I'm not a mary, LeFou,” he said, sounding too harsh. His heart sank when he realized what he had said and that he had said it in front of LeFou. “I meant…”

“I know what you meant,” LeFou replied harshly.

“LeFou,” he called, unsure of what he was really going to say, trying to get his friend to not leave.

“Save it,” he said. Gaston had never felt his heart squeeze like that and he didn’t like it one bit. “Let’s just… focus on your desperate need to get a wife so you’re not mistaken for a mary.” With that he moved to sit down on the couch, leaving Gaston in the kitchen.

“No, LeFou…” He sighed and walked up to the couch, deciding against sitting down. “You’re more important than any of the women out there,” Gaston said with some difficulty — it was hard for him admitting he cared more about his friend than the endless women he went to bed with.

“Do shut up,” LeFou retorted, and Gaston was taken aback by the fact he wasn’t on friendly terms. “I don’t want or need your… empty excuses. You’ve hurt me and pretending you don’t want all the _ladies_ you’ve fucked isn’t going to undo what you’ve done.” When Gaston didn’t speak (he was too shaken to actually get words past his mouth), LeFou spoke again. “I thought you didn’t understand how people could call me that,” he said, rubbing the back of his hand over his eyes.

“I wasn’t… I wasn’t calling you that, I promise!”

“I know, Gaston, but... it hurt anyway. You still think it’s a bad thing.”

Gaston frowned, beyond confused. “I don’t understand why you’re so upset by it.”

LeFou scoffed, his eyes still brimming with tears. “You really don’t know, do you?”

“Know _what_?” He stepped back as LeFou rose to his feet, shaking his head and walking away. “LeFou, what is there for me to know? What aren’t you telling me?”

“Don’t do that,” LeFou said dryly as he opened the door, turning to face Gaston. “Don’t turn this against me. _You_ fucked up.”

“I know!” Gaston blurted out, slightly angered at how stupid he was being. “I, I know,” he repeated, much more calmly. “And I’m sorry, just… What is there for me to know?” Without meaning to, he drew closer and closer to LeFou, who grabbed his sleeve and looked up from his arm to his baffled, harsh-looking face.

“I’ve never cared about someone as much as I care about you, and I do _not_ care for... women. Not in the classic sense, anyway,” he whispered the last part. He let go of Gaston’s sleeve and walked out. “I’m going to my house, if you want we can meet at the tavern later.”

Gaston blinked in confusion, completely lost regarding what LeFou had just told him. Certainly it was something of very big importance, possibly something slightly dangerous for LeFou himself, else he wouldn't have had whispered part of it at him like he had done. Or perhaps it was simply their relationship being like that again. Intimate and like any other friendship either man had ever experienced.


	9. 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have you ever wondered how the memory erasing spell affected gaston? no? well, too fuckin' bad because here's my +1k words take on it! (this is gna be the last chapter for a while bc im starting to have tests again and i still haven't finished the one after this. yikes :-/ sorry)

The tavern was lively, full of cheer and laughter and chatter, chirpy music filling it as well. Gaston excitedly talked to LeFou about their trip the next day to the Aulnoy as he bit into a piece of charred deer meat. One could barely notice the enormous tempest that razed the village outside. Of course, the occasional thunder could be heard, as well as the strong wind, but other than that, everyone at the tavern drowned the sound of the storm.

That is, until it happened. The entire tavern collectively fell silent, as if on cue. Gaston stopped chewing, LeFou stopped giggling at Gaston's ridiculous jokes, Eloise stopped twirling her hair, Tom and Dick stopped their darts match in such a way the darts fell to the ground.

It took awhile for everyone to go back to normal, and it was extremely debatable that they did in fact go back to normal and what exactly “normal” meant.

It started with a murmur between the patrons. Gaston swallowed the food in his mouth and put the meat back down on his plate, frowning, confused as to what had happened. He looked at LeFou, who looked equally baffled. They shared a look, both their brows furrowed and eyes filled with questions.

“I feel like I'm forgetting something,” Jean the potter said, over the whispers of the customers.

“Me too but… I can't remember what,” said Clothilde, who rarely ever spoke. Gaston scratched the crinkle between his eyebrows with his thumbnail. It was as if a chunk of his memory had been ripped away from him.

“Gaston?”

“Yes?” he asked, without looking at LeFou, out of fear, perhaps, he’d forget something more if he wasn’t staring intently at his full, dirty plate.

“Everyone’s looking at you,” he whispered as discreetly as he managed.

Gaston took in a breath and stood up. He was responsible for these villagers, he knew it to be so; he was as if their leader, after all. So, he let out the breath he was holding and glanced down at LeFou for courage. “Alright, everyone. I’m sure we’re all aware of how odd what just happened was. And I know none of us have any exact… answers. However, we shouldn’t let this affect us and our way of living. It was a one time thing, nothing more.” Once he was done, the patrons relaxed and the cheer slowly rose back to the tavern. In under an hour, everyone was laughing and chattering again, ignoring completely the strange occurrence.

Gaston didn’t feel the same, at all. He felt sick to his stomach. He didn't know why, only that what happened had been strange and that he hated it.

When LeFou caringly put his hand to Gaston's arm, he got unusually violent, withdrawing aggressively. “Sorry,” he mumbled, before shutting his eyes tightly and sighing. “I’m afraid I’ve had too much to drink.”

“I can help you home,” LeFou offered, already getting up before Gaston could say something about it.

“LeFou,” he said, raising to his feet with a bit difficulty, “I’ll be alright.” He put his hand to LeFou’s shoulder in a firm but gentle grip. “Stay here; your shift isn’t even over yet.”

LeFou opened his mouth to speak up against the mere idea of leaving Gaston alone, only to ending up biting his lip. “I can talk to Hugo,” he said, as Gaston’s hand slid down his arm. “Please, you can’t go home by yourself—”

“Why not?”

LeFou gave him the look — the “You Know Exactly Why, Don’t Make Me Talk About All The Times I’ve Found You Crying On Your Bedroom’s Floor In Front Of All These People” look — and Gaston scoffed.

“Do you not trust me?”

“Of course I do. You’re my closest friend. Which is why I know you and which is why I will not let you go by yourself.” Gaston watched as his friend turned to find Hugo, crying out a “Do you mind covering my shift?”

Hugo frowned. He put the stein he was cleaning down on the bar and walked up to the duo. “What did you say?” he asked, wiping clean his hands with a rag.

“If you could cover my shift. I'm not feeling too well,” he said. “Gaston is worried about me and he _insists_ I don't work.”

“A beer too many, no?” Hugo laughed as he threw his rag over his shoulder and put his hands to his hips.

LeFou smiled. “Definitely. So, is it alright?”

Hugo nodded. “Yes, of course! Just make sure you'll repay me.”

LeFou snorted and nodded. “Obviously, Hugo.”

“Alright, take care, LeFou. You too, Captain.”

Gaston smiled as much as he mustered and swallowed thickly; his stomach kept turning and he felt like he would be spewing his dinner any minute now. He must have had blacked out in some way or another because he couldn’t grasp the way he had reached the outside of the tavern or when it had happened. All he knew was that he was sitting on the floor near the boar’s head, his own leaning against the pole that held it, safe from the storm.

“LeFou,” he called, when he found himself able to.

LeFou turned quickly from looking at the fountain to looking down at his friend. “Yes?”

“Did you… _feel_ anything? When everyone else stopped talking.”

“Not really. I mainly stopped because everyone else did. Didn’t want to seem rude,” he joked with a light chuckle.

Gaston didn’t chuckle. In fact, his expression only became more serious. There was some kind of fog in his mind that he didn’t seem capable of shaking off. He sighed when he realized he could just be dramatizing it all and the fog was nothing but the effects of alcohol. “My mother died in the war. As did my father,” he mumbled, the side of his hand rubbing against his forehead. “Why did we fight in that war?” he asked LeFou, looking away from his boots and up to his friend.

LeFou sighed, scratching his chin. “Uh, the Portuguese.”

“The Portuguese.”

“Yes. They came back after you and your father and Captain Antoine managed to save Villeneuve from the marauders.”

Gaston squinted and jumped to his feet. “ _Captain_ Antoine?”

“Yes. He was the captain before you were. Don’t you recall? He was about my height, muscular, blond—”

“No, no, I remember him. I remember him perfectly. What I don’t remember was him dying.”

“He didn’t die until the war was over, I don’t believe.”

Gaston let out a frustrated breath as he paced. His hands weren’t still, he felt too hyperactive to even stop them from rubbing at his face and pricking at his skin. “How did I become captain?”

LeFou opened his mouth to reply, his eyes with that expression of knowledge Gaston admired. But, within seconds that expression was gone and replaced by one of confusion and thought. “I don’t know. Someone must have made you that.”

“Yes, someone must have. But who?”

“I don’t know,” LeFou repeated again, this time a murmur. He put his fingers to his lips, frowning as he thought. Gaston stared at him intently, waiting desperately for an answer. “I don’t know, someone in power, certainly—”

“ _Le maire_?”

“Possibly. But he died so many years ago.”

“And the war was little over than eight years ago,” Gaston said, firmly convinced that it had indeed been _le mair_ who had given him such a high rank in the army. Him and his father had been friends, after all. It only made sense.

LeFou sighed. “I suppose, yes. He could always have died as the war was still being fought.”

Gaston grinned, feeling much better than he was feeling before. He nodded and clasped his hands on LeFou’s shoulders. LeFou’s cheeks nearly flared immediately at the touch, but, as always, Gaston promptly ignored it. “You’re the best.”

LeFou’s reply was a simple, breathless, “Thank you.”

“I mean it,” he added, now cupping LeFou’s face with his hands.

Yet another barely audible “Thank you” was everything he got from LeFou in reply.

Gaston took in a breath and withdrew his hands. The fog was still there, in the back of his head, but it didn’t scratch at him like some infected wound. Not at all. He could completely blame the fog and how the back of his neck prickled on the alcohol, now that he had convinced himself it had indeed been _le maire_ the responsible for his position as captain. He nodded, more to himself than to LeFou.

“Do you want to go home?” LeFou asked, their hats in his gentle hands.

“Once it stops raining this much, perhaps.”

“I don’t think it will stop until tomorrow.”

Gaston took in a breath and looked over at LeFou. “Tell me…”

“Yes, Gaston?”

“You wouldn’t lie to me, correct?”

“Absolutely not, you know it to be so.”

“Yes… Yes, I do. Well… You don’t think I’m being…” He bit his lip, trying to think of a word more eloquent and better than ‘crazy’, “ridiculous, do you? About whatever happened inside?”

“No, Gaston. Everyone seemed troubled.”

“Yes, but you weren’t.”

“I don’t think I have any reason to be,” he shrugged. “If it’s something related to the war, at least.”

“Don’t put yourself down like that,” Gaston said, slamming his hand on LeFou’s shoulder and shaking it. LeFou let out an ‘oof’ at the sudden contact. “You were indispensable in the war. You were my _aide-de-camp_ , were you not?” Gaston reminded him.

“Yes, I was. But—”

“But nothing! You were more necessary and helpful than anyone else in that company.”

LeFou laughed, clearly flustered by Gaston’s words of praise. It was odd, after all, Gaston admiring someone other than himself. Someone like LeFou. “You only say that because we’re friends.”

“I do not! I firmly believe that were you not by my side, I would have died in a matter of days.”

Gaston looked over at LeFou, smiling when he noticed how he rolled his eyes before the corner of his lips twisted up and he raised his eyebrows. “I cannot disagree with that.”


	10. 29

“You should leave, Captain,” the woman by the doorframe spoke, calling his attention. Gaston shifted his blood red ring with strong fingers, his brow furrowed, as his gaze swept over her frame. Her dress, quite revealing in fashion, a bright red. Her disheveled hair, which Gaston had had his hands on less than an hour ago. He clenched his jaw, fingers stopping dead and moving to withdraw a cigarette from the jacket that laid by the foot of the bed. “Monsieur.”

He took in a breath before putting the white, thick paper to his lips. He let it through his nose, then walked up to the bedside table, naked feet against hollow hardwood, and leaned in to light up the cigarette.

The woman let out a gentle sigh and bit her lip as Gaston turned to her and inhaled. “Gaston,” she said, soft-spoken.

“Laure,” he said, offering her a small smile. “Let me just finish this,” he raised the cigarette, “and then I’ll go. I promise.”

“Your promises do me no good, Gaston,” she chided, shaking her head, brown waves falling over her shoulders, covering the bite marks beginning to bruise Gaston had presented her with.

“Yes, I’m aware.” He took a long drag and sat down. “But you should let me do as I please, if only for tonight.” When Gaston noticed the slight furrow of her brow, he grinned and said, “It is my birthday today.” He put the cigarette to his lips then, and began to retie his hair back. Once he was done, he put on his stockings and boots, and then his waistcoat. Without a word, he reached into his jacket’s pocket and withdrew a handful of livres. Gaston inhaled sharply and blew the smoke above Laure’s head, making her groan.

“Ass.”

He grinned and held her wrist, opened her hand, and placed the coins on it. “There are a few extra there.”

“Gaston—”

“It’s just for letting me smoke inside, that’s all.” He put on his jacket and pressed the lit tip of the cigarette to the metallic candle holder. He waved his hand around to get rid of the smoke as he walked up to the door. Gaston winked at Laure, who shook her head once more, and walked out, heading to the bar. Slamming his hand on the counter, he demanded, “Ale. And make it fast, Luc.”

Luc, who was busy teasing a few of his own girls and cleaning cups, clenched his jaw at Gaston’s command. “I’m not your slave.”

“No, you’re my bartender,” Gaston replied with a false smile.

Luc slammed the now cleaned cup on the counter and filled it with ale in a swift movement before sliding it to the former captain, the annoyance clear in the action. Gaston drank the liquor as quickly as he managed, trying his best to fill the pit in his gut that was attempting its hardest to bring him down. Gaston was not in the disposition to drown himself in self-pity. Rather the opposite. It was his birthday, and yes, now it only reminded him of how worthless and empty and forgotten he was, but it was his birthday nonetheless. And Gaston was someone that did not enjoy spending a date of such joy and celebration by crying and being all by himself.

No, Gaston was someone who absolutely _reveled_ in attention, preferably positive one. The lack of it from his parents in his childhood had only made him crave it during his adolescence, and his victory in the war had worsened it. When he step foot inside the tavern, LeFou began clapping. “He’s here!”

The patrons at the tavern began slamming their mugs and steins on the wood tables, whooping and whistling.

“Alright, that's enough,” Gaston said, attempting to fake a dislike for all the looks and birthday wishes, the pats on the back, all in vain of course, for his grin spoke for itself.

LeFou squeezed his hand when he got to him, aware he wasn't able to do more. (Gaston would have loved more.) “So, how does it feel?”

Gaston sat on his chair by the low burning fire, the cushion creaking under his weight. As though it were a punch, Gaston remembered sitting on it as a child, waiting for his father to come back from behind the bar and take him home, away from all the drunken men and loud women.

“Gaston?”

He turned to LeFou, his eyes clouded, his mind still lost in days of old, days of innocence. “Sorry, I…” He cleared his throat, feeling the eyes of many on him, and gave his most genuine looking smile. “You were saying?”

“I asked how it feels.”

“How what feels?” Gaston asked, puzzled.

“Being nearly thirty, Captain.”

A smirk spread across his lips before he could restrain himself. “Well, it’s terrible.” He let out a sigh, his chest heaving under his shirt, his head rolling against the back of his chair. “To be quite frank, I never thought I’d be this old.”

Laughter echoed in the tavern, and even LeFou managed to crack a smile, despite the obvious worry in his eyes. Gaston held back a scoff.

“Now, don’t look at me like that, old friend. You can’t lie to me and say you were absolutely sure you’d even reach twenty-five, can you?”

LeFou stammered, scratching his neck lightly with short fingernails. “Well… no, but—”

“But nothing! We were both in the army and that changes a man and his perception of life. How many of you would agree with me?” Multiple voices coming together and mixing themselves into one single indistinct murmur. “See?”

LeFou sighed, earning a laugh from the crowd. _Same ol’ Gaston_ was what they were all thinking, he could tell. He had his way with people after all.

“So,” a voice among many rose, “when do you plan to marry?”

Gaston let out a laugh without meaning and immediately put his hand to his mouth. “And who’s asking?”

“Probably some desperate maid,” murmured LeFou as he sat down by Gaston, as if to mark what was his.

“Don’t be rude, now, LeFou,” Gaston whispered, squinting and searching frankly the people in front of him with eyes only a professional hunter would have. “Please, step forward,” he asked, giving up on his fruitless hunt.

A triplet came through, primping herself, the other two behind her. “It was I.”

“You owe me a stein of ale,” LeFou said before getting up.

Gaston’s gaze followed him for a little — he watched as LeFou made his way to the tables and began cleaning them up, taking the steins to the kitchen to be washed —, then turned to the triplets who, despite Gaston’s many attempts at letting them know he would not marry any of them, did not give up. A small voice in the back of his head told him that was how Belle must feel about his constant approaches, but he quickly drowned it. “And which one of you wishes to wed me?” he asked with a smirk. “Surely, you’re aware I can’t marry the three of you.”

Eloise and Elise’s arms shot up, Elaine, however, kept quiet and meek, until Eloise elbowed her, making her raise her arm shyly as well. Gaston laughed and so did the patrons. “Don’t listen to my sisters,” Eloise said, despite having been the one to make Elaine show her non-genuine interest in Gaston. She stepped forward and loosened the strings on her dress. “We both know I’m the better off the three, don’t we, Captain?”

Gaston snorted. “I fear I have no interest in you but the carnal type.”

“I’ll give you more than I have so far,” she said, almost as if promising something. Gaston scoffed at her suggestion.

“I’m alright, thanks. Elise, darling?”

She smiled sweetly at the pet name and bowed her head. Her hands neatly holding each other in front of her pink skirt, she spoke, “I know I’m not… nearly as good as Eloise, but I promise I’ll treat you like you deserve.”

Gaston smiled despite himself. He liked Elise, she was soft. Of course, their relationship wasn’t more than sex, but between that he could tell she loved him. Eloise, on the other hand, used him for nothing but lustful pleasures, and he did the same to her, he was aware of that. There wasn’t more to it, there wasn’t any essence. Eliane, who he did not call to speak up for he knew how she felt about him and about men in general, was the only one who seemed to pay him no mind. Gaston was, as expected, hurt by it. His ego was always hurt by any woman who didn’t seem to want anything to do with him. But he respected it. She had always shown some strange preference for women, something Gaston could wholeheartedly comprehend.

“I’m afraid Gaston won’t wed either of you,” LeFou spoke, not letting Gaston open his mouth and decide for himself. He didn’t need to, LeFou knew exactly what he was planning and thinking. He always did. “He still has Belle very much in mind.”

Eloise huffed and turned on her heels, dark curls flying to her shoulder, Elise appeared only disappointed but showed a smile nonetheless, and Eliane, well, she simply followed her sisters into the massive crowd.

“Thank you, LeFou.”

“Don’t thank me, you know how I feel about your pursuit of Belle.”

Gaston sighed, loudly and exaggeratedly. “You’ll stop feeling like that soon enough, when Marius gives me Belle’s hand in marriage.”

“Mar— his name is Maurice.”

“Oh… Well, whatever, it’s not as if anybody cares for that crazy old man,” Gaston laughed.

LeFou smirked. “I can’t say they do.”

Gaston’s lips curled into a smile as he looked at LeFou. Christ, how that man made him happy. Being with him made him feel as if he were not a day over twenty, as if all those years who had passed hadn’t mattered at all. Being with him was pleasure in its purest form.

Gaston took in a breath, his smile dying on his lips, eyes still on LeFou. Some desire deep within his soul craved for the intimacy of marriage with him. He wasn’t sure why, only that he had felt that way for a very long time. The first time LeFou saved his life in battle, Gaston recalled, he had told himself that man was the person he wanted to spend his life with. Then he came to realize that what he felt was vile and wrong.

Gaston clenched his jaw before scoffing lightly.

Wedding his closest friend, a man nonetheless, what a foolish idea.

He now strongly hoped everyone would go back to their usual routine, rather than just stare at him intently, waiting for some, any word to leave his lips. Gaston felt _honored_ to be Villeneuve’s leader but he hoped the villagers realized soon enough that leaders don’t always have the answer, or a joke, or any kind of commentary. Sometimes leaders simply want to be left alone on their 29th birthday, crying and drinking because they’ve wasted ten years of their lives and would be forgotten completely once in their grave.

“I should go,” Gaston spoke, rising from his chair, the heat of the fire abandoning his body. “LeFou, try to meet me at my house, yes? For a little… private celebration.” He gave him a smile, a gentle chuckle when LeFou’s cheeks grew bright red. And so he left.

The early April breeze greeted him gently and Gaston welcomed it, closing his eyes and sitting down by the fountain. Twenty-nine years old. He hadn’t been joking when he had said he had never thought he’d reach this age. Seventeen year old Gaston himself was very sure he’d die at eighteen, or, if he was very, very lucky, at twenty-two. This wasn’t for some kind of specific reasoning, he simply thought twenty-two was a good age to die at; it had some sort of romanticism to it. He would have been young, people would have mourned him deeply, especially given the fact he was a war hero, recently returned from battle. Twenty-nine, though? Or thirty, for that matter? He was nothing of what he had been. He wasn’t young, he wasn’t nearly as loved as much as he had been, he wasn’t praised, he wasn’t a hero. He was nothing but a failure in the eyes of many of the villagers, who simply pretended to care _now_ because he had saved their lives ten years prior. He laughed a laugh full of the hurt he had been holding back. He desperately needed to find some way to be himself again, to be a hero again. Killing wasn’t necessary, at all. All he wanted was to be viewed as a paragon once more, by someone else other than LeFou and the triplets. To be worshipped like he knew it was his right to be by someone else other than them. Well… not that he minded being worshipped and levered by LeFou. Or anybody else, really. He just wished more people could see how important he really was, how much he actually mattered. Just so he could forget how he wasn’t really that extraordinary. No extraordinary man would drown his memories and feelings in shitty ale and choke his doubts in cigarette smoke. No extraordinary man would shed a single tear other than of laughter. No man, for that matter, cried, just like he was doing now.

He took in a deep breath, it left his lungs as a rough sigh. Gaston shook his head. He mattered, he was important, he was the greatest man in Villeneuve, in France even. He was a war hero, for Heaven’s sake. Every single woman he met (besides Belle, but he didn’t care about Belle, not a bit) fell to their knees in awe and enamourment.

He was God, really. LeFou knew it to be so, after all, and LeFou was hardly ever wrong about things. He certainly was never wrong about Gaston — what he felt, what he was thinking, what he _was_. Christ, how he wished he could just spend the rest of his meaningless life by LeFou’s side.

And how he wished LeFou would leave him without a warning, how he wished LeFou would find someone better than him, someone more deserving than him of his gentle words and soft touches and praise.

Gaston’s head hurt by now, from so much switching between Perfect to Worthless. He wished for many things, most of them relating to his and LeFou’s relationship, but one he considered especially important was how he wished his father had been kind to him. Perhaps then he wouldn’t have turned out like he did. He would have been loved and admired for _decades_ , for _centuries_ , for _millenia_. A statue would have been made of him, with LeFou by his side, of course, not simple, crude paintings on the ceiling of a reeking, filthy tavern. People would tell of his story all over France and Europe, as well. His stories would be written down by the greatest poets and writers, and his memory would have lasted for longer than he ever had. His and LeFou’s. He wished LeFou to be levered more by the people of Villeneuve. Certainly they all liked him and cared for him, but he wanted more for his friend. He wanted his immortality next to his.

He wanted his story and soul to live forever and for LeFou’s to be right by their side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't believe there's only two more chapters until i'm done with this fic, i'm gonna miss writing it  
> and sorry it took so long!!! i've been pretty busy w school and everything (just graduated!!!) and i have exams next week and like. Yikes anyway i hope it's okay and that you guys are still invested enough in this shit fic like i am lmao  
> the ending is kinda ambigous so what happened between lefou and gaston at his house is all up to u wink wink


	11. 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so sorry this took so long i hyperfocused on danganronpa but i watched the batb vid by lindsay ellis and i got some huhhh inspiration ;)) it's rly short and it's mainly just some fucking angst regarding gaston but the finale will be fuckin wild hopefully i don't promise it'll arrive any time soon esp bc i start working tomorrow but! here ya go if ur still reading this i appreciate it

The morning sun crept into Gaston's room through the cracks, shining upon the wood floor, the empty bottles, the rusty dagger, the burnt cigarettes, and finally Gaston's form spread out on the floor. He groaned and rubbed his eyes, dark circles ruining his nearly perfect appearance.

He turned to the side, almost surprised when he found a pistol beside him. Calloused, rough fingers found their way to his temples in some sort of instinct to see if he had indeed somehow shot himself in his sleep.

Gaston sat up, regulating his breathing a little. The scars all over body, be they from the war or after, began to sting, his head bursting. He eyed his arm, frowning when he noticed about three new wounds, still not completely scarred unlike his others. He tried to remember what had happened the night before, getting nothing but a hazy memory and an upset stomach.

Alcohol was definitely the cause, not that was something new to him—he couldn’t spend a single day without at least one drop of grog. He wasn’t exactly to blame, or at least that’s what he told himself until his false ego could take no more and came down collapsing. Which he now assumed was what had happened the night before, once he felt absolutely no energy to blame the bottles that lay around in the room of his floor rather than blame himself completely for any kind of deed he had ever done.

LeFou was nowhere to be seen and Gaston realized he had no actual clue of what time it was. He got up slowly, one hand on the the bed, another on his knee. The room still span a little, his vision was still blurry, and he understood that he must have still been a little drunk. His head hurt beyond comprehension. He walked up to the grandfather clock, staring at it until he could understand where its arms are pointing. He gave up after a while, too impatient to actually give a shit.

He sat on the bed, letting out a sigh. His room was mostly dark and if he wished to actually see anything he’d have to squint and squint and squint. It was useless. Gaston let himself fall on the mattress. There was a weight inside his chest that squeezed his heart, that made it difficult for him to breathe. It was driving him insane. Perhaps he should simply go back to sleep, he thought. Perhaps this was all due to having slept on the floor.

Perhaps it was all due to how his false idea of self crumbled underneath his feet like a delicate wooden bridge, causing him to fall into a river of self-doubt and self-hatred.

There was nothing in the world left for him. The generations that were to come would forget his name. His stories would fade away, no one there to keep them alive, to keep his spirit alive. His portraits in the tavern painted over with another hero, a stronger one. He would die a meaningless death—slashed open wrists, his body found on his bed; a bullet to the brain, blood pooling underneath his head—and all of his hardships would have meant _nothing_.

Nothing.

Gaston closed his eyes, letting the silent tears fall and wet the sheets under him.

His father had been right. He had been a useless, good for nothing child. He had no redeemable qualities. He was only a hunter and a war hero that would be washed away in the tides of time. He hadn’t done anything remarkable in over a decade. He had been a worthless child and he had grown into a worthless adult.

Belle was the least of his problems.


End file.
